


Once Upon A Dream

by b3ancurd



Category: Zero: Shisei no Koe | Fatal Frame III: The Tormented, 龍が如く | Ryuu ga Gotoku | Yakuza (Video Games)
Genre: Curse Breaking, F/M, Ghosts, Mental Health Issues, Non-Explicit Sex, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:28:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 41,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22787971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/b3ancurd/pseuds/b3ancurd
Summary: Goro Majima keeps having nightmares. So does the girl painting at a cafe at 5 in the morning.
Relationships: Majima Goro/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 42





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1 - Gymnopedie (Remix) by A.Krishna on YouTube  
> Chapter 2 - Almost Blue by Chet Baker  
> Chapter 3 - These Foolish Things by Ella Fitzgerald  
> Chapter 4 - Take My Breath Away by Berlin  
> Chapter 5 - So Happy Together (Remix) by l0user  
> Chapter 6 - Dream A Little Dream of Me by Doris Day  
> Chapter 7 - Once Upon A December by A.Krishna  
> Chapter 8 - Hope is A Dangerous Thing for A Woman Like Me to Have by Lana Del Rey  
> Chapter 9 - Love of My Life by Queen  
> Chapter 10 - listen before i go by Billie Eilish  
> Chapter 11 - Why Can't I Have You by Gloria Laing  
> Chapter 12 - Almost Is Never Enough by Ariana Grande  
> Chapter 13 - I Don't Want You Back by AJ Mitchell  
> Chapter 14 - Only One Who Knows by Arctic Monkeys  
> Chapter 15 - No Time to Die by Billie Eilish  
> Chapter 16 - Prayer de Luna by Yoko Shimomura  
> Chapter 17 - Happiness is a Butterfly by Lana Del Rey  
> 
> 
> Recommended songs to be played while reading will be posted for each chapter, also can be found in this link - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w_kK26Csrt4&list=PLJgsRAYEJEYQ8HGxD_3Il6QSSHAeae4E6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song: Gymnopedie - https://youtu.be/w_kK26Csrt4

Majima’s body shook hard as he snapped back to reality. The same nightmare, again. He thought after a year of constant haunting, his body would tolerate it a bit more, but the horror that came with the dream only seemed to intensify. On nights like these, he would usually open the window and throw the covers off the bed altogether to beat the sweltering heat of the night (or the dream) and lie staring at the ceiling. If he was fortunate, he would fall back asleep in the next hour. What happens more often was that he would catch a headache before the pain knocks him out and he would wake with a mere extra hour of rest.  
But Majima began reading lately.

If you had trouble falling back asleep, the last thing you wanted to do was force yourself to get a shuteye.

He sat up, pushing his hair back before he took his t-shirt off. He didn’t know why he sweat so much after having nightmares. His pulse was as calm as ever and instead he would sweat like he was dying of nervousness.

He breathed a couple of times, feeling lightheaded and as if he could collapse on a bed of feathers. But no matter how comfortable a place was, he couldn’t escape the torment of his nightmares. Even his pillow felt like a brick on the back of his head.

He thought about what to do, his eyes prowling around his unlit room like they could give him some sort of untimely inspiration. There wasn’t any. He turned to his window and pushed it open, a gust of cold air slamming against the side of his face. Maybe it was a good time for a walk. He could get ready and pass enough time and hit his office early.

For a town that “never sleeps”, Kamurocho was in a deep slumber. Though neon lights remained awake and unstirring, the town was dead quiet, save for some lonely drunk men struggling to find their bearings and a few stray dogs.

Majima never knew how peaceful it was to be out this time of the night (or morning), but to be fair he’d only been there for a few months. Life was better than before, in an odd way. He no longer lived in his barren, cramped flat, he had a bed to sleep on now and money wasn’t an issue anymore. Gratefulness was something he was familiar with, but he was only human, and he didn’t see it harmless to ask for peace of mind too.

Maybe his wish was queueing in a long line of other people’s wishes, waiting to be granted by, well whoever it was that grants wishes. Majima wasn’t one to believe in God but he was open to miracles. The fact that he was alive and breathing to this day was one of it.

The hot smoke from his lit cigarette stung his cold face as he walked through the empty streets, head down, enjoying a certain degree of relaxation; at this time of the night, he needn’t look up so much and be wary of the people around him. He could let his half-absent mind sway his legs through the alleys and roads without worrying about goons attacking him.

In the constant cold of the night approaching winter, he smelled something warm – coffee. He thought it odd that any café was still open at this time of the day, and the boredom of walking around an empty town told him he might as well check it out. From afar, he saw a shop still lit, albeit empty, if he looked right. He arrived in front of Les Fleurs, and to his slight disappointment, was staring straight at the simple “Closed” sign. He wondered why the coffee smell was still lingering faintly in the air, and why some of the lights weren’t turned off.

Then he saw it.

On one end of the front corner, he saw a canvas stand with its back against him. Was someone painting at this time of the night?  
He must have been too deep in thought that he didn’t hear the approaching footsteps. “We’re closed.” A woman’s voice startled him out of his thoughts.

“Can see that,” I still have one good eye. Majima turned to the voice. He thought at first he was looking at a ghost with the way her long black hair draped over half her face. He wouldn’t be too surprised either considering the time this lady was out and about, though he figured ghosts weren’t fond of outfits so casual as a hoody and leggings.

  
“But you can come in if you like,” she struggled to shift her stack of books to one arm, while the other rummaged inside her sweater pocket to pull out a set of keys.

  
“D’ya need help-“

  
She wasn’t listening. In what looked like a slightly chaotic second, she managed to unlock the door, pressing her back against it all the way to the wall so as to make space for him to come in. “Well?”

  
Still dizzy from his sudden wake-up, he stuttered two syllables of unintelligible sounds, but the girl was already holding the door for him despite her hands being full, literally. Without further thought, he accepted her invitation and followed her inside.

The girl placed her books on the closest table she could find, pulling a chair, which was stacked on top of the table’s surface, to the floor and gesturing her guest to sit. “Ya said ya were closed.” He sat down anyway.

“You’re free to leave, but you looked like you could freeze in those.” She nodded at his weird choice of an outfit. “Besides, you were standing so long out front.”  
The girl pushed her hair back, and Majima felt a bit of relief. He was aching to do it for her, not out of nonsensical emotions, but because he hated seeing so much hair get in the way of her face like that. She quickly combed it with her fingers to smooth it out. She looked about his age, probably a little younger.

He found out he looked older than he really was through what was supposed to be a compliment. “You’re fit for your age.” The cashier at one of his favourite fast food joints said to him. “Most men end up getting a beer belly.”  
It confused him for a good moment.

“You’re 30 right?”

It was a harmless misassumption, but Majima went about his day afterwards thinking about it. Did he look that old?

“Care for tea ?” he snapped back to reality. She was tying her hair very quickly and swiftly in a high ponytail.

“Huh?”

“I’ll just make a pot. You can decide later.” She went behind the counter. Majima went back to the blank space of his mind, taking in the atmosphere around him. There was not much he could see, save for the canvas on its stand, still empty of any colours. On the table next to him, there was a small pail of water, and 5 bottles of paint on a worn-out cloth, a wooden palette and palette knives.

 _Could make a weapon outta that_ , he thought, glancing at the odd-looking knives.

“Here,” she carried a porcelain pot and two teacups without any tray, and for a moment Majima was afraid something was going to spill or break.

“Are ya this nice to scary strangers?” he caught a close glimpse of her as she poured the tea into his cup

“Scary?” she looked at him like he was self-praising, a sweet, somewhat sarcastic smile gracing her lips.

“My bad. Ya gotta have guts to be out and about on yer own at this hour, eh?”

“More like you need to have guts to be even step in this part of town.”

“Yer callin’ yaself brave?”

She shrugged. Rolling up her sleeves, she took one of the books she was carrying earlier and opened it. It was a sketchbook. Majima had never seen so many of it. He’d never had the opportunity to interact much with people who indulged in fine arts.

“Ya always up this early?” he asked.

“Hm?” she skimmed through each sketch in the book. “I haven’t slept yet.”

“Huh? What’s a young gal like ya doin’ not gettin’ any sleep?”

“I always stay up Friday nights.” She answered casually, finally putting the book down. Majima watched her squeeze the paint out of each bottle onto the palette. Holding the palette full of colours on one hand, she grabbed a knife with the other. “Oh, drink up before it gets cold.”

“Right,” he held the small cup in his hand, a funny, somewhat soothing smell filling his nose. As if noticing the twitch on his face, she said,

“It’s chamomile.”

“Camp-a-what?”

She laughed. “Chamomile, a type of flower.”

“They make teas with flower, huh?”

“Try it, it’ll calm you down.” She assured him. Did she think he needed calming down? Better still, was she a mind reader? The tea was bland, but strong with the taste of whatever cam-a-flower she said it was.

“I thought it’d be sweeter.”

“Oh, sorry. There’s sugar on the counter over there. Forgot to bring it over,”

“Ya don’t put sugar in yer tea?” he wasn’t much of a tea drinker but past experience with people who did taught him that tea was drank with sugar and milk, or something like that.

She shook her head. “Too much sugar makes my head spin.” She said, swiping large amounts of colour onto the canvas.

“Sounds like a kid.”

“You’re not the first to say that.” She was slightly amused.

“So are ya?”

“Hm?”

“A kid?”

“No, I’m-“ she paused, staring at the canvas as if calculating something. “-22…soon.”

“Soon huh? I figured ya could be in your teens still,” she looked like a fully-grown woman, but the youth on her face said otherwise.

“And you?” she asked, not looking at him. “They say you’re younger than people think.”

“They?” did she know who he was already?

“Goro Majima, that’s you, isn’t it?” People who knew who he was often hid in fear of his reputation, and whoever was fearless enough either wanted to pick a fight or lived long enough in this town to pay no mind to the dangers that was bound to its ground, him included. She looked fearless, albeit not clueless. Was she just reckless?

“Yeah,”

“So, how old are you? 27?”

“25.” Still an older guess but it was the closest he got so far. Better than that one time a little girl called her Daddy.

“You didn’t look like you knew me.”

“I don’t. I just recognize you and your name. Who wouldn’t in this town?”

“Must be the outfit, huh?”

She turned from the canvas to look at him. “It looks better up close.” She gave a somewhat approving gaze.

“Ya don’t think it’s strange?”

“I mean, it was hot a decade ago, but it’s nothing anyone has never seen. I think it looks good on you.” She smiled. Even he thought his outfit was tacky. But this girl was judging his attire like she was evaluating whether her design fit on her model or not. “Although not wearing anything inside is a little unconventional in this weather…” she was so…strange. “Are you sure you’re not cold?”

“I’m good. Yer tea really warmin’ me up on the inside.” He hate to admit it but so was her odd overly-hospitable behaviour.

“You sure? I’ve a blanket upstairs if you wanna cozy up a bit more.”  
That sounded like a different kind of invitation, but he assumed she didn’t mean it that way. The concern in her eyes told him so anyway.

“Not ta be mean, but were ya paintin’ the whole night?”

“Yup,” she nodded. As if reading his mind, she continued, “This is my fourth painting tonight.”

“Fourth? That’s a darn lot, ain’t it?” The last time he commissioned an artwork to put up in his office, it took the artist a month to complete it. “Yer must be really good.” He considered commissioning her instead next time.

“I don’t do intricate paintings on Friday nights. Mostly just kind of rough painting.”

“Why not just do one?”

“I’m painting my dreams. One each night, or more.”

“Are ya talkin’ bout yer future or the ones ya get when ya sleep?”

“Dreams when I sleep, or nightmares.”

Nightmares. He looked at the stack of sketchbooks sitting in front of him. How many nightmares were in those? “Ya mind if I take a look?”  
She shook her head. “Not at all.”

He put one on his lap and opened it. Pencil sketches covered most page. She drew plenty of human-like figures; shadowy ones with faces undiscernible but a smile so wide it looked like a psychopathic demon out of a horror movie, some were naked female figures with their backs against him, hair as long as hers crouching in unhappy states. He wondered if they really were her. He looked up at her as if to detach himself from the rising fear of looking at her drawings, but it made him shiver to think that a pretty, kind face like hers could create such dark chaos, albeit in the form of harmless drawings.

“Yer dreams look rough, eh?”

“You think so?”

Think? No one in their right mind could find solace from the images now pinned inside his head. They were almost as terrifying as the ones that woke him up and led him to that café in the first place.

Deciding that he had seen enough darkness from a stranger whose name he knew not, Majima put the book back down and finished his tea. He watched the girl paint, sometimes standing up to take a closer look. She’d invite him to try a stroke or two of colours, insisting when he hesitated. Painting wasn’t his thing, but it was refreshing to see a normal person avert her full attention to a very normal thing, despite the unusual time and roots of her in-process artwork. It certainly was different than what he was used to.

“Hm, it’s starting to get a little light outside.” She said, peeking over the canvas. “You wake up this early?”  
Majima looked at the clock ticking on the wall of the café. It was nearing 7. His schedule was odd and he had nothing to do that morning. The girl began clearing her things, leaving her new artwork to dry.

“Are you hungry? We don’t have much, but I could fix you whatever we serve for breakfast.”

“Nah, it’s fine.” He felt uncomfortable accepting more of her hospitality.

“Another drink? It’d take around five minutes to get the coffee machine going.”

“S’alright. I need ta leave.” He lied, but he couldn’t let her pamper him some more.

“Okay, be careful then.”

“Thanks.” She let him do one last thing for him, which was hold the door and see him out. “Ya be sure to get that sleep.” He said.

“Soon,” she grinned. “Come over if you’re bored again.”

“Will do,” he promised, knowing somehow their next encounter would come sooner than they expected. Instead of heading to the office as he planned, he detoured back home. The streets were beginning to bathe themselves in a dark bluish glow, tinted with a rising orange. When he arrived, he took off his jacket and collapsed onto his bed, now chilly after hours of being blown with cold outside air.

Was it magic? He felt sleepy, and echoed words he thought she might have said to him about the tea having calming properties. Or was it chamomile? He couldn’t remember clearly as his eyes grew heavy and he let slumber take him. The only thing he did remember acutely was that he had forgotten to ask for her name.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this idea thinking about Majima in Yakuza 0 when he kept dreaming about his past and couldn't sleep because of it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has an excuse to see her again, but not before another nightmare, or was it?
> 
> Song: Almost Blue by Chet Baker

Majima was in a dark room, his arms stretched upwards in an uncomfortable manner.

He was exhausted, parched and in pain. The stench of blood of those before him was as natural as oxygen. He didn’t remember how long he’d been there. The only light he saw was when they switched on the single flickering bulb. They needed it to aim accurately when they tortured him. When they left it was total darkness.

Days were no longer about sunrise and sunsets. It was an endless cycle of when the light went on and when the light went off.

His throat was dry of screaming. He could barely even cry. They chained his hands high above his head that he felt like his arms were about to rip off his body. Many times he thought he was going to die, but his body persevered, much to his growing agony. There was only so much a man could take.

Sometimes, Shimano would come to take a peek, as if he didn’t trust the word of his men when they told him Goro Majima was still alive and breathing and taking his punishment ‘well’. Then he’d leave and it went on again, and again, and again.

He couldn’t remember how many methods they tried, from brandishing hot iron brands, to metal bats, to the common bare-fisted punches and kicks. Sometimes Majima would guess what the next torturing would be like, just to pass time and (hopefully) supress the pain by predicting everything and anything they could do to him.

There were days he’d pass out and they’d leave him there until he woke up again. How many times had he stood at the brink of death? He couldn’t remember, but they had tied a rope around his waist. Even if he jumped, he’d never make it to the other side. Tonight it was lighter than usual. The two men tasked with punishing him hadn’t much tools to work with, so they beat the sense out of him with their bare hands. It was the most tolerable, but it still hurt.

When they got tired, Majima’s body was aching everywhere. Half of his skin was blue. He wondered when they’d get sick of him, when would any of them lose their temper and just kill him there and then.

But he couldn’t sabotage himself.

There was a reason he let himself be thrown into the hole. He couldn’t die just yet. So he hung on, no matter how difficult it was.

Damn, this was just the beginning.

Majima couldn’t be sure if there would even be an end, but the thought that there was a long way to go made him feel very, very tired. The metal door closed on him, and he sighed at the first moment of peace in Hell.

 _This again_ , he thought, opening his eyes to a more comfortable darkness. He was back in his room, but scepticism was something he couldn’t shake off, so he made it a habit to have a calendar on his bedside.

He switched on the lamp. “1989.” He murmured, feeling relieved. Majima got up, grabbing a beer from his fridge, and downing it as he looked out from the window in his living room.

He felt sore for some reason. It was a normal thing for him to take a few punches now and then, but he hadn’t been in a heavy fight for days now. There was the occasional beating up of goons, but Majima remembered specifically that he hadn’t taken a hit because nobody had been capable enough. So why did his body hurt so much?

He stretched his neck, reaching his hand to his nape. He felt a sting there. What on earth was going on? Had he slept on the wrong side? But this looked more than what a massage could fix.

In the end, he sighed. “Whatever,”

He hated to think so much. It wasn’t part of his newly found personality, but if it didn’t kill him, why bother? He slipped back into bed, bracing the next nightmare.

If only he had chamomile tea, he thought.

Majima had many opportunities to go see the painter from the café, but he turned them down each time. Back in Sotenbori, he wouldn’t have hesitated. He knew many people and enjoyed his popularity. He had a reputation here too, but for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to walk into the café, no matter how much he wanted to say hi to her.

This time he couldn’t resist, or rather, he had an excuse to go.

He overheard his men making a loud chatter in the office about a gig at a café run by two sisters. “Oi, oi, what yer yappin’ so loud about?” the noise annoyed him.

“Boss, have you been to the café on Tahei Boulevard?”

“Do I like a fuckin’ tea drinker?” he actually was since a few weeks ago. He didn’t know his boys were the type to hang at cafés, but when they talked further, it made sense.

“The lady who runs it’s a real beauty, but word has it she already has a man.”

“Then why are ya idiots hangin’ round a place like that?” They got giddy all of a sudden.

“The sister’s real cute too.” Majima narrowed his eye at the fools.

“Haw? And what café is this?”

“Les Fleurs. You should come with us tomorrow night boss. They got a gig going on and she said she’ll sing a song.”

“Yer real excited about this girl, huh?”

“We promise, boss, you’ll be charmed. She’s real friendly with customers.”

“I’ll beat ya if yer lyin’.”

He thought about the painter as his men led him to Les Fleurs. Was she the older sister or the younger one? He sighed as if thinking about the disappointment he could risk having if it was her who had a boyfriend. He wasn’t thinking too far about girls, but he’d barely had any interaction with the opposite sex ever since moving to Tokyo.

Not that he could handle a relationship, but a man like him needed someone to admire, especially since he didn’t know many people in the district yet.

And the painter had the charisma, coolness and charm of the girl he wanted to crush on endlessly. She was the perfect eye candy, and she proved it to him twice.

“You came!” Majima understood why his boys liked her so much. She greeted them personally, even let them introduce their boss to him. The quick glance she gave Majima suggested something curious, but neither of them interrupted his boys.

The painter wore a midriff tanktop underneath a leather jacket, and her cullotes hung just above her ankles. Her full-black attire was accented with a gold flower pendant which she hung on a long necklace. No wonder she was so unfazed by Majima’s choice of fashion. She clearly had a knack for it too. Majima felt a sense of pride. If anyone else called him out for his tackiness, he’d simply remember the painter’s words.

She tended to them personally, took their orders and served them, all the while stealing obvious glances at Majima. It was like she knew when he’d steal a look at her and wanted to make sure she was looking at him too. “So, boss? What’s your verdict? She’s pretty fine, ain’t she?”

“If ya say so,” he felt a bit grumpy that his boys had ordered coffee for him. It had been so long since he last stepped into this café and he really wanted some of the witchcraft that was chamomile tea.

The gig began.

She sang the opening segment before the main act, and when she stepped onto the performing space the lights darkened to focus on her. Piano sounds echoed through the café. Majima was a bigger fan of catchy tunes, but he could never catch a break from his emotions with her. Already he felt a sudden sadness he couldn’t explain, and she hadn’t even begun singing.

“ _Almost blue…_ ” a wave of cheer erupted. She had plenty of friends and fans, Majima learned, two of them being the idiots he was currently seated with. He was glad she seated him at the far back, where he could afford some privacy with the emotions that she was making him feel.

_“Almost doing things we used to do.._

_..there’s a man here and he’s.._

_..almost you.”_

He was sure she was looking at him. There was no one else in the corner there but him, and the small smile on her lips almost spoke to him, “I’m looking at no one else.”. Or maybe she was just shy singing in front of people and couldn’t contain smiling in the middle of a sad song.

“Boss, I think she’s looking at you.”

“Yeah, she probably caught your charm, huh, boss?” Majima felt like punching them there and then.

_“It’s almost touching it will almost do.._

_..there is a part of me that’s always true._

_Always.”_

As delusional as Majima was believing himself to be, he knew he wasn’t imagining things when he saw her eyes wander and her smile complete fade.

_“Almost me,_

_almost you..”_

She ignored it for a moment.

“ _Almost blue.”_

Majima secretly hoped she would look at him again, but he felt like a dog fooled. Until the end of the show, he didn’t catch any of her glances anymore. If he learned anything, it’d be that she was popular with the people of Kamurocho, or the café-goers at least. The way she interacted with people, the way she smiled. She was like the district’s girl-next-door. Majima was feeling warm again inside.

As he watched her, he felt a sudden pang of regret. What was he doing? He got up without a word, then walked out the door. His boys were startled but they knew better than to disturb him whenever he fell dead silent like that.

He had a smoke and walked around town. Emotions were foolish, no matter how small he acted on it. Why did he think making the painter something to look at whenever he felt lonely was such a good idea? But why was it not? Plenty of other men like him had favourite hostesses and mistresses. Heck, some of them were married. But there was a difference between showing emotions and showing desires. For some reason, he felt as if he’d make himself vulnerable if he showed the former.

He circled around the streets until he reached the café again. His boys were gone.

“Found you.” He recognized the voice. _Fuck_ , he muttered under his breath. He turned around to find her standing in front of him. God, she looked cooler up close. “You looked pretty upset back there.” She said. “Was it because of the coffee?”

 _How did she know that?_ “S’probably just my face.”

“Care for another drink then?” she held the door a second time for him. He didn’t think he was sexist, but he felt shy inside having this girl throw chivalrous, albeit small acts for him instead of it being the other way round, as he always made sure most of the time.

Majima caught some of the customers glancing at the man with the eyepatch and a snakeskin jacket. It probably looked odder that next to him was this friendly-looking college girl, but they appeared to recognize her, because as soon as she turned to them, they greeted her casually like old friends or neighbours. Had she been here longer than he did? He wasn’t sure, but he felt like a fish out of water in the homey-like place.

She sat him down at the back table of the café. “What will it be tonight? And don’t worry, it’s on me.”

“I-“ Majima didn’t want to admit that he wanted that chamomile tea again.

“Another coffee?”

“I’d prefer to sleep tonight,”

“Tea it is then,” she shot a smile before leaving him to wait alone. He scanned around the space of the café, noticing the paintings hung on the wall. It wouldn’t have bothered him if he hadn’t remembered that she painted. She brought two pots of tea this time and set them down on the table.

“Don’t cha feel like yer pamperin’ me a tad bit too much?”

“This is hardly pampering.” She sat in front of him. “And I didn’t forget the sugar this time.” She tapped a small porcelain container of the grainy sweetener.

“This another flower tea?”

“Berry tea, and green tea, because I’m trying to slim down.”

“Yer already as thin as a fiddle.” he said, noting how small her waist looked. She only smiled in response, pouring the reddish looking tea into his cup.

“Try this one first.” Majima obliged, smelling the fruity scent of the tea. It had a stronger taste than the one she served last time, but he still wasn’t convinced he could favour it over soda from the vending machine at street corners.

“I’m feelin’ real fancy drinkin’ all o’ yer tea in a place like this.”

“Says the man wearing a gold chain.” She commented. She was right; he was rich, but he wasn’t too good at spending money. “And it’s tea, not wine.”

“I take it yer not much of a drinker?” She shook her head. “I thought college girls like ya would start goin’ ta clubs and getting drunk at yer age.” He’s seen them many times. They were the half who flooded the streets on Friday nights, the other half being the working men and women.

“They do,”

“And ya don’t?”

“I don’t enjoy it,” she said bluntly. “What about you? Do you have wild desires inside?” she rested her face on her hand, looking at him with the same fondness and humour that confused him earlier.

“I hit the bar a lot, but nah I ain’t the type ta get mad drunk.”

“You must be one of those people who can, what do you call it, hold his own liquor?” Majima smiled at her attempt to slip in phrases of the local men, then nodded.

“Kinda,” he took another sip of the tea. The warmth once again, made Majima feel a little too comfortable being with her. “The paintings, ya made ‘em?”

She nodded.

“Are they yer dreams too?”

“No, I could never show paintings of my dreams like that.”

“But ya showed me. Am I special to ya or somethin’?”

“Maybe you are.” She said. “Maybe.”

There was so much probability in her words, but Majima couldn’t help but feel like he might be something more than just a stranger to her.

His boys were right. She really was a charmer. Just as he was about to move the conversation further, she looked at him strangely. She reached her hand out. Majima felt cautious. She touched him lightly on his collarbone, her brows tightened.

“Is this a bruise?”

“Huh?” _How sharp were her eyes?_ Even he hadn’t noticed it because half his collarbones were covered with tattoos, and also the fact that bruises was a common part of his life.

 _Oh, fuck_. Now he’s really gone and done it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Majima goes to the library to read about curses and ghosts.
> 
> (TW: violent content)
> 
> Song: These Foolish Things by Ella Fitzgerald - https://youtu.be/mshV7ug8cdE

“It looks exactly the same as the one you had the last time we met.” He remembered her saying. It’s been a week, and the bruise still has not healed. The rest of his body did, but he’d been getting the same dream about one of Shimano’s boys hitting him at the exact same spot; at the bruised mark that had caught the Painter’s eyes. It seemed like as long as he dreamt about that exact moment, it would never heal.

Still, it wasn’t too serious to be considered a bother.

He didn’t understand why she gave him such a haunting look when he left the café after trying to worm out of talking about his bruise. It was like she could feel a bad spirit lurking near him after seeing something so trivial.

He even had to reject her kind offer of looking at his wounds. When he considered making her his prize to behold, he only wanted to show her his affection, not his vulnerability. But it looked like ever since their first meeting, she’d only caught up to the things he wanted so badly to hide.

Maybe it was time he laid his eyes on another girl. The Painter was clearly too much to handle for an ‘eye candy’.

Majima decided to take a trip to see Utabori. His tattoo looked a little faded than usual, and the last thing he wanted was for his threatening persona to die out on him now. He needed to look the part and he needed to maintain it.

“Quite a mark you have there,” the old man noted. Why did he need to remind Majima about the bruise now? “Picking a fight with every fool you cross, Majima?”

Utabori was well-aware of the identity Majima was trying piece together. People liked talking about a man so unpredictable, but it was difficult to be truly unhinged. “Say, ol’ man. Whadaya know about bruises that don’t go away?”

“Hm? Sounds like a curse.”

“Haw? What kinda curse? Ya tryin’ to scare me now, ol’ man?”

“Have you heard of the curse of the Manor of Sleep?”

“Sounds like a budget horror movie.” Majima grunted.

Utabori smiled. “Do you have things that haunt you, Majima? Perhaps you left someone important behind?”

“What’s that got to do with anythin’?”

Utabori knew Majima was like a child; he couldn’t sit still through narratives of what he called “ancient nonsense”. “Sometimes, people can’t let go of the past. It haunts them so much they become consumed by it. Do you have nightmares?”

Majima fell silent.

“People dream about the things they regret, and that regret marks victims with bruises that never seem to heal.”

“This just a bunch of nonsense, or are ya tellin’ the truth?”

“That’s for you to decide. Bruises don’t usually stay for so long, do they?”

Utabori’s words made him think a little more than he should. Majima shouldn’t have shoved his worry aside, now he was scaring himself thinking about an urban legend cursing him. He wasn’t a believer of ghosts, but if it was already happening, who was he to deny its existence?

Majima didn’t think his ‘crazy’ personality would mean him going to the library to look for books, but here he was. He felt out of place and knew someone was bound to kick him out for going against library dress-codes. _Fuck it,_ he said. He was mad and dangerous and he’ll be in a library wearing nothing inside his jacket if he wanted to. No one can stop _him._ No one would dare to. He would fight anyone who did.

“You can’t be in the library wearing _that._ ”

It hasn’t been a minute. This person really was going to feel his wrath. How dare-

“Haw?” he turned around to meet the teasing gaze of the Painter.

“Fancy seeing you here in a library, Goro Majima.”

“Oh, it’s ya.”

“You were about to punch me, weren’t you?”

“I ain’t treat women dirty like that.”

The Painter grinned, as if finding some amusement in talking to him. “Mind me asking what you’re looking for here?”

“What’s it look like? I’m lookin’ fer books, like any other guy in a library.”

“There’s probably a few thousand books here, and I’m guessing you don’t know much about how to look for them.”

“How hard can it be?” he said, waving her away. The Painter’s eyes were daring, and Majima didn’t want to look into them for too long save she got a bit too brave for her own good.

“Well, if you need me, I’ll be right over there.” She pointed for him, almost as if she really wanted to make fun of him. Now Majima _really_ wanted to spiritually punch her.

“I can bet with cha that I’ll find the book I want in less than 5 minutes.”

“Okay,” she said, as if it didn’t bother her. He looked like a fool trying to prove to her that he didn’t need her, and he felt more the fool when 30 minutes passed and he still couldn’t figure out the map of the library.

Shamefully, he dragged himself to the table where she sat, and that was after he went to the wrong table and mistook someone else for her. The Painter pretended she didn’t know he would almost definitely fail and gave him a sweet smile that hurt his pride even further.

“Did you find your book?”

“Naw…”

“What was that?”

“C’mon and help me already before I make ya!”

“Did you just say you need _my_ help?”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

Majima sighed, swallowed his pride, and then said, “Beautiful girl, can ya please help a fool look for a goddamn book?”

“A ‘please’ would have sufficed, but if you insist.”

“Tsch.”

“Now, what is it you’re looking for?”

“A book about urban legends or paranormal shit.”

“You’re into things like that? And that’s a very wide scope.”

He didn’t want to tell her that he’d come to find answers about the bruise. Chances were, she already noticed it as soon as she saw him in the library but didn’t want to say anything about it.

“Y-Ya heard of a place called Manor of Sleep?”

For a moment, he thought she looked surprised when she mentioned it. Her teasing behaviour seemed to be replaced for a look that was concerned and serious. “Are you trying to find a cure for dreams that won’t leave you alone?”

It was oddly specific, but Majima wasn’t going to snake his way out this time. He’d already hurt his own ego by asking for her help. “Kinda,”

“You don’t need a book for that.” She sat back down and prompted him to sit on the couch with her. “So what do you wanna know?”

“Everythin’? I aint’ know nothing. S’why I came here to look.” He noticed she was looking at the bruise again.

“Some people think it’s a curse of the dead. People who survive accidents or bad things sometimes can’t shake off the guilt of someone might have been taken by whatever tragedy they’ve experienced.” The Painter maintained her eyes on him as if trying to catch any single slip of his emotions as she talked. “They end up dreaming about whatever haunts them, or whoever haunts them. Basically, they can’t let go.”

Her voice was extra soft when she was serious. Majima wouldn’t sit through a story like this with Utabori, but with the Painter, he suddenly knew how to focus. “And sometimes if the guilt is too great, the dreams control the victims and inflict pain as if they feel it in real life. Not just emotionally, but physically too.”

“There haven’t been that many cases, but dreams are a thing people in psychiatry study about.”

“Saika-tree?”

“It’s a branch under medicine. It’s like doctors, but for the diseases that happen in your mind.”

_For the invisible pain you feel in the heart._

“Other people think it might be malicious spirit feeding on your vulnerable parts, giving you things you want but you lost until you become trapped and can’t come back to the real world.”

“People die from this?!?”

“Sometimes,” she said, clearing her throat. She tried to look hopeful. “But many manage to move on and defeat the darkness they feel. It’s the illusions of the dreams that make it so hard for people to leave.”

“Why’s that?”

“Sometimes the dreams look too real that people believe they’re in reality. So they accept it as is. Ignoring your innermost pain is one fight, but another is finding a reality you can come back to.”

“Sounds like some complicated science fiction shit.”

“It does, doesn’t it? But you know the feeling you get when you wake up, and you realize it was all just a dream?”

“So that’s what it is, huh? That’s what saves people from fallin’ too far into the other side?”

“For some people.”

They fell into a silent moment. It was natural considering they were in a library, but Majima fell oddly grim. “Is there something you want to tell me?” she asked.

“Nah! I thought I mighta been cursed, but ain’t nobody I care about dead yet.”

“They don’t have to be dead.” She cut him off.

“But ya said-“

“All you need is guilt and someone you feel guilty towards. That’s all there is to it.”

Majima crossed his arms. “Hm. This shit sounds pretty serious, huh?”

“I never would’ve guessed.”

“Yer pretty smart, eh?”

The Painter graciously smiled like he didn’t mean it. “I know you’ll probably tell me you’re fine and you can handle a few bruises, but…be careful.” She looked like she wanted to say something else.

“I will,” he promised her, feeling bad that he made a stranger worry. “I’m sorry for takin’ so much of yer time.”

“Don’t worry, you’re free to take more. And I meant it when I asked you to come by the café if you ever get bored.”

_With his boys making it their new favourite spot?_

“Your friends only come on Saturday nights.”

“Maybe I will,” he said to her.

The Painter watched him leave, feeling a little sorry for the man. She reached a finger up to the velvet choker on her neck, pressing gently on her skin. She wish she could have said more comforting things, but Goro Majima didn’t look like someone who was fond of people’s pity, even if it was only human decency.

Still, she wished him good health behind his back. She had a hunch that one of their meetings would be a cross in unfortunate paths, and she wasn’t looking forward to it, no matter the softened spot in her heart that she had grown for the one-eyed man.

_Please watch over him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any fatal frame fans? The lore used was tweaked a bit here and there but was definitely inspired by the events in Fatal Frame 3.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Friday night and Majima's drunk at the cafe. Also Berlin is playing.
> 
> Song: Take My Breath Away - https://youtu.be/C4ZmFmEGRhM

Once upon a time, a long way ago, there was a woman, who was a ritual tribute.

Such was the importance of her being that the balance between the land of the living and breathing, and the land of those dead and silent relied on this single woman. They inked her body with blood of those before her, but she saw her lover die in front of her. She couldn’t let him go.

Chaos ensued her agony-filled heart, and though she too, died, she wanders in the realm between the living and the dead, looking for souls banging on the invisible wall that separated the worlds, begging to be let in. She looked for creatures of flesh and blood who could understand what she felt, people who lost another and is driven by regret so great they were willing to die to get rid of it.

She found such agony in Goro Majima.

The Painter hadn’t expected him to make a storyteller out of her, but she gladly indulged him in urban legends and stories not meant to be told in the middle of the night. Ghost stories were meant to scare, but if her eyes were seeing well, it looked like Majima’s heart was fluttering listening to her talk. He normally didn’t smile, but his face looked a little redder than usual.

“Were you drinking?” she asked.

“Haw??” even his responsiveness needed to be checked. “I had a few, I think..”

She continued painting, shaking her head. “Well, what’re ye waitin’ for? I’m dyin’ ta hear the next one!”

“I’m out of ghost stories right now.”

“Hm? S’that not a ghost yer paintin’?” he said, unaware of the offense she could have taken from his words. The Painter smiled in sad remembrance.

“You could say that.” Her voice was quiet.

“Huh? Yer cryin’? Was it somethin’ I said to ya?” he was startled, and he shot up out of panic.

“No, you didn’t.” she said, seeing that he was a little more drunk than she initially thought. She felt endeared at his response, albeit his tipsiness telling her he wouldn’t if he was sober. She thought it safe to say a few words. He probably wouldn’t remember come morning. “This is someone I used to care about.”

Majima looked excited. “Oh! Yer Prince Charmin’?”

“It’s been five years since he passed.”

“D’ya still think about him?”

“All the time.”

“I’m sorry ta hear that…” he frowned. He didn’t mean to make the Painter sad. He was only worried about her. But she smiled at him like an angel, like she understood his intentions. Was it him or was there a light shining around her? Come to think of it, everything was shining. The lights were dancing. Dancing….

He knew how to cheer her up.

“Ya like to dance?” he asked, getting up almost immediately.

“If I’m forced.”

“Then, let’s dance!” he grabbed her by her hand before she could refuse. The jazz music playing on the café’s record player was slow and dreamy, but in Majima’s eyes, the café was a disco right now.

He was a terrible dancer when he was drunk. The Painter had to hold him close to keep him from tripping over the tables and crashing into the wall. With alcohol taking his reins, and his act thrown to the side, she did nothing more than gaze at him like he was a specimen. There was the untamed look in his eyes whenever he looked excited, and boy was he excited dancing with her.

He looked almost like a child.

“Did you have a nightmare again?” she asked.

“Same shit every night.” He said.

The Painter decided to take advantage of his drunkenness. “What is it about?”

“Huh? Nothin’ a pretty girl like ya need ta worry about!”

Even subconsciously, he had his guard up. “Do you feel scared?”

“Naw, just a lil’ sick of dreamin’ the same shit o’er and o’er again.” He talked like it didn’t matter to him, but the purple patch on his skin said otherwise. “Say, tell me about yerself. Ya from around here?”

“I used to live half an hour from here, with my parents.”

“Then why a pretty and smart girl like ya decide to move to a place like this? Yer lookin’ for trouble?”

“Not at all. My sister opened this café a while back, and I thought I could do with helping her.”

“Yer always this kind, huh? Helpin’ yer sister, helpin’ strangers…”

“I’m not a hero like you.”

“Me? A hero? What, ya fall in love with me? I ain’t no hero.”

“Maybe, but I always hear about you helping people. Children and girls especially.”

“Just doin’ what any person would do.”

“Not any person would do what you do in this town.” She reminded him. “Hey,” she held him by the arms. “Take it slow a little, yeah? Or you’ll hurt yourself.”

Majima followed her, but slow wasn’t exactly doing him any good. He felt dizzy, and the pain in the stomach that he felt for a long while was starting to make itself known. Apparently, so was the realization that he was holding the Painter up close. He’d been the one to prompt the dance, but for some reason, he was the only one who felt a strange kind of tingle.

It didn’t feel all too good that she remained so calm and cool with her smile. She didn’t feel that sudden lurch that he felt in his heart, but the way she looked at him assured him that she understood anyhow. _It’s okay,_ she seemed to say.

“Ya’ll probably call me crazy, but wanna be my girl?”

“Isn’t crazy what you’re going for?”

“Didn’t wanna overwhelm ya.”

“What would I do if I was your girl?” she asked, much to Majima’s surprise. He expected her to give him a quick rejection, and he was feeling humorous enough to take the pain.

“I’ll spoil ya, and we’ll just drink and talk alone.”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing right now?”

“So is that a yes?” his hopes were high now. The Painter smiled, then shook her head.

“I don’t want you to spoil me. I like it just the way it is now.”

“Do ya really?”

“Really. I just wish you’d come by a bit more, like friends do.”

“Friends?” God, he hadn’t heard that word in a while. Sure, he had a few but they were mostly in the clan too. He could do with another friend. “The world’s really spinnin’.”

“I think you need to sit down now.”

“But I need ta cheer ya up!”

“And you did, so come sit down with me and I’ll give you something to drink, okay?”

“Yer such a sweetheart, ya know that? I might just call ya Angel.” The Painter pretended not to hear him from the counter as he continued mumbling to himself. “Pretty lil’ Angel.”

“Here, drink this.”

“This the same cama-m-“ he was struggling to pronounce words now.

“No, but it should help you feel a bit better.” She watched as he take a sip of the green tea she just brewed. His face twitched bitterly. “Tastes like hot grass.”

“It takes a bit of getting used to.”

It was clear he hated it, but Majima still wanted to finish it for her. “I’m going to send my things up to my room. I’ll be down in a bit.”

She took the elevator up to the apartment. Her room was lit by the generous spill of the moon’s light. “Going to bed, yet?” a shadow stood at the corner of her room.

“Not tonight.”

“Playing hard to get again? You know I like girls like that.” She felt the chill of the shadow breathing down her neck. The Painter ignored the paranormal and decided she should go keep Majima company before the furniture in her room started moving on its own.

When she went back down to the café, Majima had his head tucked between his arms on the table. “Hey,” she tried to shake him, but he wouldn’t budge. He mumbled a few words she couldn’t understand. “You must be tired.” She sat down in front of him. His one eye was shut and he looked as comfortable as sleeping on a bed.

“Should we get you home?”

There was no answer. “Hm.” She thought about what to do. She didn’t know where he lived, and she left him there, who knows for how long he’d be asleep? She needed to open the café in a few more hours and Majima didn’t look like he was going to give up sleeping anytime soon.

“Can’t be helped, then.” She said to herself. It was going to be a sleepless Saturday for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the 80s and love is in the air because why not?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The answer to surviving Majima's dreams might be sitting right in front of him, literally.
> 
> Song: So Happy Together (Remix) - https://youtu.be/Q6VPbu_M4-Y

The Painter slipped into darkness for what felt like a fleeting moment.

She was sitting on her windowsill, the long design affording her enough space for her to stretch her legs outwards. The window frames were cold against her skin and it kept her awake, but at one point she must have not cared anymore because she was aware of opening her eyes after a few incoherent thoughts she didn’t create, crossed her mind.

“Just a little bit more.” The voice has been with her ever since she returned to her room. “You’re feeling a little sleepy, aren’t you, babe?”

She sighed, then pulled her hair to one side of her shoulder. She began to braid them effortlessly. “You’re hurting me being cold like this.” He sat at the end of her feet, his back against the window. “Don’t you miss me?”

The Painter looked outside the window. The district was awake and busy. She could hear faint noises of ladies doing their morning grocery shopping. “Hey,” she felt a hand touch her bare calf. Only her room felt like it was stuck at dawn, when the sky was dark, but not dark enough that it was void of hope. Likewise, she had a sliver of optimism that darkness would end, but it never came. The slight hope is what kept her waiting.

She looked up to meet his non-existent gaze. There was only a smile she recognized. _Don’t touch me,_ she wanted to say to him, but the only way she could get out of this was if she kept her composure and her belief that none of this was real. She didn’t move an inch.

The shadow’s touch rose higher up her leg.

It was going to take more than just a touch to make her flinch, he seemed to understand from the eyes that weren’t on his. He moved to caress her slender neck, his long fingers easily wrapping themselves around it. Still, she didn’t flicker. He tightened his grasp on her, enough to make her choke.

She felt his nails dig into the thin skin on her throat. It was piercing, his strength, but she had to ignore it at all costs, because the moment she lost sight of what was real and what wasn’t-

There was a sound, and everything went black.

For some reason, this time, it was Shimano himself who held the whip. The cat ‘o nine tails, they called it. It was a short whip, and like the name helpfully suggested, it had nine tails at its end, each tail carrying a small, spiked metal ball.

Shimano was a beast, and every whip, albeit slow, made Majima curl his fists so tight that his palms begin to bled from digging his nails in too deep. That must have been the first time he screamed.

His legs shook so much Shimano had to order two of his men to hold Majima up so that his back was straight. It made him easier to see which spot he missed.

It was never-ending.

Shimano didn’t sound like the job was exhausting him. In fact, it brought him delight when he was finally to whip the sound out of the boy. Those who listened from the outside would describe the sound as a muffled mixture of pure evil. The merciless cackle and the lung-filled cries was a torture just to hear.

 _It’s not real._ It crossed through his empty mind.

_None of this is real._

_You need to come back._

Whose voice was he hearing? He tried to focus, but every time he did, the spikes would hit his skin again.

_Come back._

Come back where? He thought. _Close your eyes and come back._

I don’t know how! He wanted to yell.

_Just remember, none of this is real._

Then what was real? He shouted back. What was real? Was the tearing of the skin on his back not real? Was Shimano’s echoing laughter not real?

“No…”

Something wasn’t right.

_Think, Goro, think!_

There was a mistake in the structure of the reality he was in, in the room he was chained inside, but he couldn’t figure out what. The answer seemed to dangle in front of him but he had forgotten it all.

Shimano, he thought. Shimano wasn’t real.

He’d watch his men beat him many times, but he had never done the beating himself. He was too proud to do the work. That was it, wasn’t it? Then why was Shimano going on and on, and why did he feel it?

 _Take me out, take me out, take me out,_ he begged.

Then all fell silent.

When he finally came to his senses, he felt a sting on his cheek, and his back hurt. “Thank God,” he heard a woman sigh.

_A woman?!_

Majima couldn’t trust himself with alcohol anymore. He jerked from the bed, looking at the woman sitting next to him. _Fuck,_ he did it again. “Are you alright?” the Painter looked like he almost died. His heartbeat in panic mode and his bearings everywhere, Majima looked around him. This certainly wasn’t his room, and he certainly wasn’t on his bed.

“Where am I?”

“My room.”

“Huh?”

“You fell asleep at the café last night. I didn’t know where to take you. I would have gotten a taxi for you but I didn’t know where you lived, so I thought it me be safer to just to bring you here.”

He had an immense need to hit himself in the head with his bat. “I’m sorry for troublin’ ya again,” he calmed down, feeling awfully bad towards her. “Ya were supposed to sleep but ya here takin’ care of me.”

“You’d do the same.” She merely said, helping him to a drink and an ice pack. _Maybe even more._ “Does your head still hurt?”

“A little,” he looked at her, noticing the worry on her face grow.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t let you sleep longer. You were…making sounds in your sleep. Like someone was hurting you.”

“Were ya the one callin’ me in my sleep?”

“You heard that?” it put her heart to rest knowing her cries worked. She’d never been sure of her hypothesis, but her desperation urged her to put it to the test. “I wasn’t sure what was going on, but I was worried. I’m sorry. I slapped you too because I didn’t know what to do.”

Majima lightly touched his cheek. So that was her, he said to himself, but it didn’t matter. There wasn’t any loss to cutting a nightmare short. All it did was drain him of a good night’s sleep. “Thanks,”

“Were you trapped in there?”

“I guess? I realized it was a dream and I tried ta wake up. Noticed somethin’ was off about it.”

“That’s good.”

“But, uh, I think I mighta done some kinda damage ta myself.” He laid out his hands. He still had his gloves on, but he felt a searing pain inside. The Painter slowly pulled them off. There were indeed marks where his nails bit into the skin of his palm. “Pretty bad, eh?” he tried to laugh it off. As always, the Painter wasn’t amused, nor was she horrified. She reminded him of a still lake, hard to stir, hard to scare.

Majiima was almost certain she had more guts than some of his men, and another thought in the back of his head believed she held more secrets than he could imagine; secrets he was hoping he might one day be lucky enough to be a confidante of.

He couldn’t help study her hands as she was treating the cuts on his. The Painter’s fingers were delicate and gentle, unlike his. Some people say hands were a testimony to the life you lived, and though her hands seemed to be a witness to no scar, Majima was sure she had her own woes.

“I was kind of happy to see you sleep so well,” she said. “You know, before you had your nightmare.”

“Did I do somethin’ embarrassing?” Majima was ready to give up on his pride.

She shook her head. “You slept like a baby.”

Somehow, that made him feel worse. She’s seen him at points he wished never to have to share with her, and yet she carried his troubles like she carried a basket of flowers; so elegantly and forgiving that he felt compelled to….kiss her? Wait, what?

Majima shook the thought off his head. How had such a lewd idea cross his mind? _What’s wrong witcha, ya sicko?!_

He didn’t abstain himself from looking at her, sitting so quietly in front of him in her camisole and shorts while she carefully wrapped bandage around his hand. She looked so domesticated and comfortable with him.

“What are you thinking so hard about?” she didn’t lift her gaze. Majima felt as naked as an open book, and maybe it was the alcohol talking, but he felt weirdly reckless too.

“Thinkin’ about how beautiful ya look right now.”

She scoffed as if she didn’t need to look at him to know that he was lying. “I ain’t bluffin’!” he said.

“I didn’t say you were.” She looked up into his eyes, smiling as if she knew.

“Ya look at me like I’m clownin’ ya.”

She ignored him, giving him another few minutes to trace her features; the way she tucked her hair behind both sides of her ears, and let it fall smoothly behind her back. Her face had a pinkish tint, and her lips were pale and slightly torn, like she had a habit of biting them.

“I must’ve acted like a darn fool last night, didn’t I?”

“You were an absolute gentleman.”

“Ain’t nothin’ gentleman about gettin’ drunk on a girl. I’m real sorry for doin’ that to ya.”

His second apology charted an unexpected response. She looked at him and kissed him on the lips. It was chaste and quick, but Majima couldn’t hide the flushed look on his face. “Will you stop talking now?” she looked almost annoyed, but he was too shocked to care.

“Sorry.” He wanted to touch his lips, but it would look too obvious with her sitting knee to knee with him.

This was one for the books, he thought, unaware of the man staring at them with a flame fuelled by jealousy standing in the corner of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have song recommendations please do let me know in the comments below! Also feel free to put in your thoughts about the chapters or the songs or anything really. Have a good weekend loves :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some fluff because why not amirite?
> 
> Song: Dream A Little Dream of Me - https://youtu.be/h7j8wa9sWOE

“What d’ya mean ya ain’t gonna go to sleep?” he watched her stand in front of her mirror and gather her hair to tie it up.

“I’m going to go down to the café, of course.”

Majima felt heavy with guilt. He’d apologize again if he could, but he doubted she’d just kiss him to shut him up this time. “But ya look as pale as a ghost.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Hm,” he thought for a while. How was he going to outsmart her? She didn’t look like somebody who easily changed her mind, nor did he think threatening her with his knife would work. Come to think of it, where did he put his knife? “Then I’ll watch ya!”

“What?” she turned to him after tying her hair up.

“I’ll be at yer café ta make sure yer really fine.”

“Go home.” She told him.

“If I can’t make ya rest, then ya can’t stop me from comin’ to yer café. Ya won’t mistreat a customer now, would ya?”

“Sounds fair.” She stopped arguing as if she never tried in the first place. “Go home and take a shower before you do. Might help you get rid of your hangover,” he watched her pull her towel. “I’ll see you later then?” she disappeared into the bathroom.

It was curious and amusing how everyone began looking for him the moment he was set on watching the Painter every second throughout the day till she turned in for the night. Conveniently, it was then that his men made mistakes and couldn’t figure out how to deal with things on their own. Suddenly nobody in the goddamn town had enough capacity to help themselves. The Painter was right when she called him a hero. He didn’t like having to spend so much time helping people, but he was no good at rejecting a child on the verge of tears while looking at a bunch of dolls sitting in the claw machine outside of Club SEGA.

It must have been around 10 in the evening when he finally, grumpily stormed his way to Les Fleurs, ready to scream at the next person who asked if he had any beer on him. He looked like a walking mad dog when he entered the café, almost scaring the hell out of the few customers still there.

“Welcome!” he looked at the counter. The Painter wasn’t there. He sighed, turning dark with disappointment. _What ya feelin’ so down for? If she ain’t there means she went ta sleep, like ya wanted her to._ He thought to himself, but it wasn’t that which made him upset. He had promised her he’ll be watching her, and he took his promises seriously. All he did now was lie to her. “What would you like to drink?”

“Yer got chamomile tea?” he asked.

“Sure we do. Anything else to go with that? We’re having a promotion at the moment. Buy one free one slice of cake.”

It would have meant something if she was there to share it with him, but she wasn’t.

“I think I’ll pass.” He said.

He sat alone gloomily. The music they put on wasn’t helping him feel any better. “One chamomile tea and a smile for you, sir.”

“Thank-“ he looked up. The Painter looked down at him.

“Well? You don’t want to take that smile?”

“Ya ain’t asleep yet.” He stated the obvious.

“I was waiting for you. You didn’t show up.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t keep ta my word.”

“It’s alright. You look like you could use something to cure that sour face of yours. What do you say to cake? You’ll have to pay this time, though.”

“Sounds like a splendid idea.”

“Come on then.” She pulled his hand and took him to the front where an assortment of cakes sat chilled in the display case. Majima has never seen so many cakes of different colours before. Rainbow cakes, chocolate cakes, cakes that looked like the baker had pulled the stars out of the sky and spilled it, cakes that didn’t look edible but apparently was.

They sat and ate and talked, waiting out the last of the customers until they were completely alone. The Painter’s sister left too, giving Majima a daring glare on her way out. He admittedly felt a little scared of her; she clearly was a force to be wary of if she didn’t have the slightest fear of threatening _the_ Goro Majima. Of course, he wouldn’t dare of hurting the Painter, but with someone else there to remind him, he felt a little pressured.

They tidied the café to some more jazzy music. The slow, dozy songs were rubbing off on him, perhaps due to the fact that it made him feel things while looking at her, more than the music itself. He hadn’t noticed it while they were talking, but she clearly was tired. When she didn’t smile and was fully focused on her tasks, he could see the lines under her eyes. She sighed a few times, yawned twice but still pushed herself to be as thorough as she could.

“Hey, ya can sit down if ya like. I can help ya close up.” He offered, but every time he did, she’d shake her head, insisting that she was fine. She thought a smile could cover it all, but it didn’t convince Majima anything else besides her selflessness.

She too, insisted he could go back home, that she’d be fine, assuring him he would go straight to bed, but Majima was just as stubborn as she was. “I ain’t leavin’ ya until I see ya sleep f’real.”

“That sounds a little suggestive.” She gave him a cheeky smile.

“Ya thinkin’ naughty things?”

“It’s your fault for saying it that way.”

“Just wanna make sure yer safe n’ sound, is all. I’m worried about ya.”

As always, the sway in her moves and her apparent habit of ignoring him when he said serious things made him feel like she didn’t believe a word he said. “Oi, yer listenin’ to me or not?”

“I heard you.”

“Ya look like ya don’t give a single damn.”

“Why should I? You said you’d make sure I’m safe. I already said you could go home.”

“Huh.” She always knew how to impress him in the most unexpected ways. “If ya see it like that…”

The next few moments passed in silence. Majima would glance at her whenever he could, and when she caught him she’d merely grin with her exhausted eyes. He was torn between wanting the moment to last longer and wanting to see her to her apartment so that he could rest easy.

“All done?” he waited for her to lock up the café.

“Looks like it. You should be getting back. It’s so late out.”

“Naw, a promise’s a promise.”

“Thank you,” she said with sincere eyes, making the heavy feeling in his heart turn to feathers.

“Anythin’ for ya.” He said. Then, just as he had feared, he saw her eyes flicker. He stepped close enough for his body to act like a safety net before she could collapse to the ground, and she landed her head on his shoulder. “Ya must be really tired huh?”

She managed nothing more than a grunt.

“Let’s get ya that sleep ya lost.” Carefully, he lifted her legs and carried her up to her room.

For once, he felt like the hero she said he was, but of course, not without bearing the full brunt of her sister’s accusing wrath.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All they want to do is run away.
> 
> Song: Once Upon A December - https://youtu.be/JZ6buLNIgs8
> 
> (TW: mentions of blood and a bit of gore)

There was something strange about the little neighbourhood the Painter called her home. Located in the suburbs of Tokyo it was a mixture of urban hecticness and the serenity of domestic life.

The Painter was walking down a street she frequented on the way home from school, the late afternoon giving it a dull orange tint. She could hear the distant cries of children playing at the nearby playground, the almost-chaotic background noise of traffic, the sound of working men impatient to return home to their wives.

“Let’s not go home just yet.” The hand she’s holding speaks to her. He walks several steps ahead, wearing his school uniform as she did. It was any normal Friday in 1983, when she was 16 and young, and nothing looked like it could go wrong.

“Where are we going today?” she asked.

“Let’s take a train. We’ll go wherever you want.” When she looked up at him, she could only see his hair from behind, dark and outlined by the light of the sun in the far horizon. Friday always felt like an ecstatic rush of a trip of a couple taking over the world. She couldn’t wait to see the colourful lights of urban nightlife again.

“But I didn’t tell my parents-“

“We’ll call them when we get there.” He turned to her. She couldn’t see his eyes, but he smiled bright. She was always on the same rebellious wavelength as he was, so long she trusted him enough to keep her safe.

Downtown Tokyo never disappointed. The hustle and bustle of the modernized city mesmerized her as if she was looking at the lights gleaming at her for the first time. It meant more to her than just “colourful lights”, as he would put it. She was young and inexperienced but she could smell freedom where she stood. It was tinted with ambition.

She kept her thoughts to herself. Friday nights were not for listening to her talk about fancy words about the economy or politics. She could annoy him another time with that. She gripped his hand harder, and they ventured into the hedonist concrete jungle, never once remembering home.

The Painter had it all; she was a good student with a tendency to read things beyond what was asked of her, a boyfriend whose talents in sports would definitely secure him an athletic scholarship in the near future and a world that was spread out for her taking. Her teachers were all confident that she’d get accepted to the university of her choice. She had nothing to worry about.

And all of that did happen. She enrolled in the country’s top university, and he went to an Ivy League, became a star soccer player for his college.

When did things go wrong?

Nothing _did_ go wrong.

He took her home safe and sound, kissed her on the lips. “Goodbye, kitten.”

“Wait-“ why did he say goodbye, instead of goodnight? He didn’t hear her, and he walked on away from her, smiling, and she couldn’t reach him if she tried.

She breathed, now in the confinement of her room. The dream was a little too personal this time around; she felt like she was ready to accept the reality, and the shadow of him that kept her company.

She could close her eyes again and maybe she could find him, but she had forbidden herself from diving into worlds she knew were dreams.

So why did she taste smoke on her lips?

He didn’t leave her. He was still there looking back at her from the corner of her room. “Go back to sleep, it’s still dark out.” She felt his hand caress her. _So that’s where the smoke came from._ “You need the rest.”

_It isn’t rest if I keep remembering you._

The Painter sat up, sighing with a hazy mind. She leaned her back against the wall. The clock told her it was only 5.30 in the morning. Five hours wasn’t so bad. Most of the time she’d only last 3 hours before the illusions came. When her memories felt a little kinder, it was four hours of pure peace.

She didn’t remember what happened after she closed up the café with Majima. She scoffed at the possibility that she had passed out in front of him. It couldn’t be helped when she got so little sleep in the first place. She wondered how he could function so well with a crazy schedule and sleeps that weren’t that much kinder than hers.

“They’re asking about you.” Her sister rarely talked to her about home, but at times, she couldn’t just ignore the reality of her little sister’s residency in the red-light district. “Are you really planning on staying here forever?”

“Maybe,” whenever topics like these were brought up, the Painter would be busy doing something, not once looking at her sister. “I already have someone who likes me. Maybe I’ll just get married and settle down here.”

“That’s not funny.” Her sister knew she had plenty of customers who adored her, and she wasn’t surprised. The Painter was like a ball of sunshine that made people who stepped into the café, even first timers, feel like they belonged, and there was more than one person who warmed up to her more than just a paying customer. “And nobody’s letting you settle down with a yakuza.”

“I wasn’t talking about him.” She wasn’t talking about anyone in particular, but she’d be lying if it didn’t hurt her to hear that her sister wouldn’t let her live a dream-like romance with the man in the snakeskin jacket, even if she knew damn well herself that it could never happen.

“We’re just worried.”

“I moved here to help you with your café and learn to be independent. Can we leave it at that? I’ll think about what to do next when the time comes, or when you kick me out.” She shrugged. “I’ll be gone the moment you ask me to.”

“I didn’t mean it like that…”

“You don’t need to worry about me, and you can say that to Mum and Dad too.” She decided to take her coffee to her room. No way was she staying in the dining room with her sister keen on diving into her most private thoughts.

“You still miss him, don’t you?”

The Painter saw the shadow waiting by the door as if waiting to hear her answer as well. “I’ve loved him for 5 years. What do you think?” she said, retreating to the privacy of her room.

The Painter’s room wasn’t the only place that began to fill with loneliness, like water from a broken pipe. The Mad Dog in the making was nothing more than just miserable. He knew one day he’d end up back in the familiar bounds of the neon district Sotenbori, but he hadn’t expected it to come so soon. It had barely been a year.

He met some familiar faces, walked through streets he used to be sick of. A few months could barely change anything, but it felt like forever since he’s been there. That’s how far back he pushed the memory of everything bad that happened there.

All the things he didn’t want to remember; the faces he wanted to forget.

Majima lit a cigarette in the confinement of his hotel room. The hotel said something about a smoke alarm, but he couldn’t give a damn. Smoking cigarettes was one of the things that felt real in the place he wanted to leave behind. God, for someone who was striving to be completely loose in the head, he sure had a lot of complicated feelings to deal with. They were like thin threads intertwining with each other and the more he pulled at any of it, the more knotted they became.

The shadows in his room were both alive and dead, some of them were splitting images of him. He refused to look at any of them.

He thought that he had learned to manage his dreams better, his bruises had faded, and so had the scars on his palms. The Painter had been so happy for him when he showed her, people would think that she had some terminal illness but by a miraculous stroke of luck, managed to survive.

 _See? You’re alright._ He couldn’t forget the look in her eyes. It had made him believe himself that he could beat all manner of pain, physically and emotionally, but now it was looking more and more likely that all he had been doing was running away.

Running from his sword brother…

Running from the blind girl….

Running from himself….

The phone in his room rang. Majima briskly picked it up. He was too tired to entertain another sudden assignment, but anything would do to take his mind off the demons inside his head. “Sir, we have a call for you all the way from Tokyo.” They connected him to the actual caller.

“Hello?” there was static in the voice, but he could recognize it any day. It was the Painter. This was better than extra work.

“Yo, how’d ya know where ta call?”

“I ran into one of your friends and asked.” She laughed. God, that laugh…he missed that laugh. “I was wondering if you could come over.”

“But I’m all the way in Osaka,”

“I’ll wait.” Was all she said. That was all she needed to say, and Majima went on his way. Seven hours was a long ass drive, and he was willing to pay his boys extra if it meant he could get there, to her.

It was around 4 in the morning when he arrived in the awfully silent district. Was she really waiting for him? Les Fleurs wasn’t lit. Maybe the Painter had gave up waiting and went to bed.

When he went to the door, he found it unlocked. Pushing himself forward, it was only a few steps before he felt the crunch of broken glass under the heels of his shoes. “Anyone home?” he called out loudly, gripping his sheathed blade as he carefully tread through what he now saw as a disaster.

Tables and chairs were broken into unusable pieces, adorned with flowers and flower petals fallen from their vases. The wind flew through from the big gap of the glass window. Someone really came and did a number on the café. The last thing Majima wanted to see was a trace of blood anywhere. He was glad the lights were out.

The partial blindness gave him more time to hope that the Painter was alright. Quickly, after realizing there was no one else in the front of the café, he reached the door to the kitchen. He tested the light switch, this time a little luckier, and for a split second he was blinded.

Wait, this wasn’t the kitchen.

The smell of cold was replaced by the smell of sweat and dried blood. The lights were flickering.

It was the concrete torture room that has housed him for a year.

Except that it wasn’t him chained in the centre.

_No…_

The Painter looked up at him, trying to smile with her blood-stained lips.

 _You came,_ she seemed to say.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who's real and who's not?
> 
> Song: Hope is A Dangerous Thing for A Woman Like Me to Have - https://youtu.be/RRxwPDR5UgE
> 
> TW: implied sexual content

The comforting cold of the rainy weather defeated the Painter’s will to stay awake. She woke up to the loud thunder and aggressive pitter-patter of the rain against the roof. For a moment, upon looking at the time on the clock, she debated whether it was 7 in the morning or in the evening. She sat up, finding herself sitting on the cold floor with her college books sprawled open in front of her, several papers with writings stacked beneath.

She remembered a bit. She had a talk with her sister and locked herself in her room to do some work. Work was the only thing that kept her distracted. The radio was crackling with sounds she couldn’t discern, and she couldn’t remember if they put on any songs that she liked. The Painter sighed, noticing the mug of coffee on her bedside. It must have turned cold.

The chill made her body ache slightly, what more the Painter was only wearing a tanktop and shorts. She got up, putting her books on her desk before heading to the bathroom to wash her face. As she washed her hands, she noticed a weird colour tangle in between the white foam of her soap. Rinsing her hands clean, she noticed patches of purple on the skin of her wrist.

_Oh no._

She tried to rub it off with her thumbs, confirming her more pessimistic thoughts.

Before she could wallow in confusion, she heard a loud thud in her room. Exiting her bathroom, she attempted to find the source. The thud came again from the window. Was someone throwing rocks? Someone better be ready to pay for repairs if it shattered.

The Painter leaned against the windowsill and opened the window. In the foggy gray haze, with some rain bouncing back against her skin, she saw him stand on the street looking up at her. No sane person would stand so idly in the heavy, pouring rain, but the Painter thought he looked more sad than mad. It didn’t exactly fit the persona he wanted, but it did send her running down, similarly crazily, without an umbrella.

Sheltered under the edge of the ceiling of the entrance, she called out, “What are you doing there?” she had to raise her voice to beat the loudness of the rain. If it wasn’t going to stop anytime soon, she was sure the news would start making warnings about floods.

Raindrops flowing like waterfalls against Majima’s face made him look like he was crying. _Ah, heck,_ the Painter stepped out onto the street barefoot. She had also ditched her sandals on her way down. The rain hit her in a large wave mercilessly, but it didn’t feel nearly as cold as sleeping on the bare floor earlier.

“Hey,” she said softly, wondering if he heard it. Assuming he didn’t have much to say, she took his gloved hand, tugging on him so he would follow her. “Should we go inside and get you dry?” He didn’t resist.

As if returning to a sliver of his senses, Majima hesitated in front of the apartment door. “I’m a walkin’ spillin’ bucket o’ water.” He insisted he didn’t want to wet her floor.

“Well, so am I, but if we’re quick, we’ll make less of a mess.”

He didn’t argue. She pushed him to her bathroom suite, told him to take off his soaked clothes so she could throw them in the washer. “I’m not sure if this is big enough for you,” it was the only spare towel she could find. As she waited, she got out of her own wet clothes and tried her best to wipe the floor dry of any wet trail she and Majima had left.

When she returned, she found him standing in the middle of her room like a lost puppy. His hair was still dripping wet. Seating him next to her on her bed, she grabbed another towel and proceeded to wipe his hair dry. “Did something happen?” she asked.

He was quiet. “I-I..” he tried to manage a word. She had never seen him look so pale, so out of focus, so…disturbed. “I saw ya…”

“Where did you see me?”

“At the café, no at the-“ his voice trailed off. “Everything was broken, then I saw ya. You were bleedin’ and ya were smilin’ at me. You said you were waitin’ for me.” Images flashed through his mind. The burning glow, the Painter’s tears, the blood. Everything was red. “I couldn’t save ya…”

_I couldn’t save him._

“I’m sorry..” his voice cracked, and he pulled her into a tight embrace.

_I’m so sorry._

“It’s just a bad dream.” She said, locking her arms around his cold body. Her lips were shaking, and she felt like crying, but he didn’t need to see it when he was almost falling apart himself. “Just a bad dream. It’s okay.”

“Are ya…real?” he pulled away, reaching his hand to touch the flesh on her face, trying badly to understand what ‘real’ felt like.

“I’m real.” she looked into the distraught in his eyes. How long had he been looking for her? His hand was like ice against her skin. “You’re freezing.” Her hands weren’t any better, but Majima found comfort in knowing that she was the real thing, and not the soul he saw being tortured in his place hours ago. “Here, let’s get you warm, yeah?” she pulled her thick covers and hung them on the back of his shoulders.

“Ya swear it’s you?”

“Just as real as you are.” Her reply didn’t ease his stubborn suspicion. The Painter felt she was no less mad than him for what she did next, and she leaned forward and kissed him. “Do you believe me now?” she pulled away to take a glance at him. “No?” she tried again.

The last time she kissed him it was to shut him up. This one was no different. Majima could feel the whispers demonizing her melt into dust, and he fell into a mental silence. He closed his eyes. She was the real thing alright.

His entire ice-like being melted into her almost instantly as she pulled him to lie on top of her. They didn’t say a word anymore. Holding her and touching her was enough to prove to Majima that he had indeed escaped the horror that was his nightmare. “May I?” he asked, now feeling a need he couldn’t supress.

“Will it make you feel better?” she looked up at him, no less concerned than when she first saw him in the rain. He nodded. “Okay.”

Her body was warm against his skin, and without exchanging another word, Majima gently and very carefully made love to her. She held onto him tight, hoping that night would come fast. She couldn’t hold in the tears that were filling up to the brim in her throat. She sheltered in his shadow, unable to face him after they finished, letting him hold her from behind.

The Painter closed her eyes to a realm from five years ago, feeling the heat of the tar beneath her. She was numb, and she looked a few feet away from her, eyes wide. Flashed by the light of the car turned over, _he_ lied there, eyes closed. Blood was trickling down his face.

The face of the shadow in her room.

When Majima woke up, the Painter was still in his arms. He didn’t want to go back to sleep, despite the peacefulness of everything, and he raised his head to take a glance at her sleeping form. Her pretty pale face looked like a doll washed in blue. He ran a finger through her hair, then placed a kiss on the side of her neck. It was small next to his hand, slender enough that he thought it could snap if he wasn’t careful with her.

It was then he wondered if he had hurt her, physically. She was dead quiet throughout. He told her to say something if she felt he was being aggressive, and yet he couldn’t help but worry. Save for the occasional sighs and held breaths, she didn’t make a sound.

He looked at the way she kept her fingers idly slipped inside her choker, as if trying to tug it off. Did she feel like she was suffocating with it on? He’s never seen her without it. Thinking it better judgement, Majima unfastened the accessory.

 _Huh?_ He looked closer at her now bare skin. Reaching out to switch the bedlamp on, he traced her neck with his fingers. _Fuck._

Like another choker, there was an asymmetrical, messy line of dark red marks. Did she suffer from the same curse as he did? As he circled his hand around it, she stopped him, keeping his fingers inside her gentle grip. “M’sorry,” he whispered. She turned around to face him, saying nothing. It was as if she didn’t care that he saw it, or that she had given up completely.

As though searching for some needed comfort, she shifted closer to him and buried her head in the crook of his neck. “Did ya do that to yerself?” he asked in a quiet whisper.

“Almost.” She replied. “Then it started happening in my sleep.”

“Why didn’t ya tell me?”

“I didn’t want you to know.”

“You weren’t goin’ to tell me? At all?”

“No.”

“Will ya tell me now?”

“And then what? You’ll worry about me when you shouldn’t have to.”

“S’not your decision to make if I wanna worry ‘boutcha or not.”

The Painter was quiet for a moment. What she said next made Majima freeze.

“I killed someone I used to care about.”

Of all the horrors he’s seen, Majima couldn’t help but feel a shiver coming down his spine. Even he had never killed before. “Five years ago we got into a car crash. He was driving me home. I think he was angry with me.”

“Doesn’t sound like that’s your fault.” He said.

“I wish it wasn’t.”

He didn’t know what to say. She clearly has a fair amount of guilt weighing on her heart. Who could have guessed when she’s been nothing but a ray of sunshine? “D’ya still miss him?”

Surprisingly, she shook her head.

“Then?” he looked at her empty eyes, dark and inexpressive.

“I don’t want him back,” she said.

“I just want to be forgiven.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some angst filled romance to cure the horrors of nightmares.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her shadow won't leave her.
> 
> Song: Love of My Life - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JeBGPncaTSg

_1984_

The Painter was nowhere near poetic, but she felt like MacBeth. She couldn’t wash the blood on her hands or rather, she didn’t want to. She spent the time when the funeral and visitations of family and friends took place apologizing to guests who had come to convey their condolences for _her_ loss, especially to his parents.

Everyone had been so _kind_ that she started seeing blood on even the floor of her room. Her teachers became more lenient with her, her friends and homeroom mates constantly checked up on her when she strayed into haunting silence. Her parents left her alone, after her sister gave them a good hearing. She felt indebted to everyone, a nuisance, an unnecessary bother.

_A burden._

One day, she sneaked out of school during lunch break while no one was at home. The solitude and the absence of voices gave way to the voices in her head. She’s had so many questions ever since the death, so many regrets. Before she slept at night, if she could sleep at night, she would take herself back to lying on that road in the middle of the night, to the moments before, calculating every damn little thing, wondering what could she have changed so that he was still breathing and alive with her today.

Well it didn’t matter if it was with her or not, it didn’t even matter if she was alive or not, as long as he was. Maybe he was a little sleepy and maybe she should have insisted on getting a cab home. Maybe they should have gone home earlier. There were a lot of possibilities, but the Painter was sure she should have done something. Now he was dead because of her.

She cried in silent apologies.

That was when she saw him for the first time.

He held her from behind. He smelled exactly as she remembered him; the Italian perfume that he liked so much tinted with a little bit of smoke he tried always to rid of whenever he was around her. “Have you been crying a lot?” his voice echoed like a dream. “Because of me?”

“I’m sorry.” She didn’t remember how many times she’s said it. It was like her chanting mantra, though it never brought her or anyone good luck.

“Me too.” He said. “I missed you.”

“Really?”

“I keep wishing you were here.” She felt his hands slipping from her shoulders, and when she stood up to look at him. “I know how terrible it feels being here. With me, you won’t have to feel that way anymore.”

The Painter took the belt off her skirt. _It’ll look good around your neck,_ he seemed to say when she met his dark gaze. He helped her up a chair, then stood watching her as she did what she needed to do. He extended his hand out to her, and for a moment, he had her hand in his grasp.

They were going to be together forever.

But her hand slipped through his grip a second before he could call her his again.

Five years later and the belt marks still graced her neck ever so beautifully. She stepped into the shower, another place where her loud thoughts liked to echo mercilessly against the walls of the small cubicle. You should’ve used your father’s belt, was the first one she thought of. Granted, the time she attempted to kill herself, her belt had snapped due to its worn state and thin form. She had made a mistake again and here she was, still alive, unfortunately.

She had set the water to icy cold despite signs of a flu coming up after the rainy feat she had with a certain someone last night. The day was hot and dry that day and she wanted to wash all and any trace of sweat and nightmare on her body.

While she tried to shock herself from her sleepy haziness, the bathroom door opened very slowly. She must have forgotten to lock it. The Painter’s ears were very sensitive to the way sound changed in open and closed spaces. She would have ignored it if the door opened so loudly, because that was how her sister entered to ask for extra toothpaste or leg wax. She turned to her side, watching the blurred shadow of somebody moving from outside the cubicle.

“Who’s there?” she asked, turning down her shower. Had he come back after she sent him home? Did he finally feel embarrassed? He had insisted earlier on going home in just the towel she had given him. His justification had been that locals needed a reminder of how unpredictable the feared Goro Majima could be, but the glare the Painter made him accept her jacket and her offer to call a cab. “I don’t think that’s the kind of madness you’re going for right now,” she said.

It couldn’t be him. He was too loud for his own good.

The Painter grit her teeth and carried on showering. Her lack of acknowledgement led to hands grazing hard against her spine. Then she felt hot breath against her neck. “You’re being rude.”

The hands rose up to her throat. “I don’t like it when you’re rude.”

God, please make it quick, she prayed. It seemed that these days she was completely at His mercy.

Outside, Kamurocho was feeling the heat. The summer was meant for vacation and trips to the beach but for many of the working-class people, it meant enduring the weather in the bustling city. Majima was barely part of the working class but here he was, stuck in his office, leaning back in his leather chair. His jacket, gloves and shoes were already thrown elsewhere in his room. Goddamn, it was hot.

He wanted to send one of his boys to get him a pack of ice-cold beers, but all of them were out doing much more important things than quenching the thirst of their patriarch. There were already two standing fans blowing in his direction. That was in addition to the air-conditioner that was on at full blast. Who cared about electric bills when you were a rich gang member, right?

“What’s takin’ them so fuckin’ long?” he groaned his legs sprawled out like he was trying to split them apart on his seat.

He thought of going to Les Fleurs, but he hadn’t gotten over spending the night with the Painter. Sure, he was a gangster and he was big and mean but God, did she make his entire being weak. She even let him stay in bed with her until his clothes dried. He remembered that she smelled like a sugary thing, like a walking cotton candy.

The best thing of all was how she held him as dearly as he did her. Maybe it was an artist thing, maybe it was just her but she looked so bedazzled by every little small feature he had. It was as if she found a painting that struck her in a museum and can’t stop looking at it, trying to find every single reason why she found it so beautiful, when all Majima felt like was a plain old rock at the side of a road.

“Your tattoo.” She’d trace her finger on the images on his body so lightly that if he didn’t focus, he wouldn’t feel the touch at all. “You retouched them?”

“You can tell?”

“The colours look brighter.” Her eyes didn’t meet his. She’s been trying to pinpoint every single thing in his tattoo design. She asked about motifs and meanings, and her eyes looked like a child’s as he explained to her.

“Would you let me paint you?” he didn’t know what she saw on his face when she gazed at him, but she seemed just as fascinated with it as she was with the Hannya demon on his back.

“Why’d ya wanna paint me for?”

“Do I need a reason?” she asked.

 _Why me?_ Was what he wanted to ask, and he wanted more to hear what she had to say.

“Don’tcha need a reason for everythin’?”

“I thought you were going for the mad look. Sometimes you do things for no reason, don’t you?”

She had a point; always did. The Painter knew better. “You have pretty eyes.”

“Are ya sure yer eyes r’ workin’ right?” he waved in front of her, but he’s never seen more honesty in a pair of brown eyes than he did at that moment. She ignored him. Is this what it meant when people said to drown in a person’s eyes?

“And pretty lips.”

“Wanna kiss ‘em?” he teased.

“I think I kissed you too much last night.”

They did, and he remembered. The fruity aftertaste of her lip balm still lingered at the back of his mind. He was sure if he went and surveyed lip balms, he’d be able to pick out which one she used – that was if he was mad enough to taste them each. But who knew the madness he was capable of.

Then there were the bruises on her neck and wrists.

And here they were worrying about his one bruise on his chest and the cuts on his palm. The marks on her neck had been there since five years ago. He was beginning to think that the things in her mind were darker than his. Once his boys come back, he was going to find out what happened to the Painter.

But it’s been hours and it seemed like he was going to spend a day in the office alone. He sighed, completing his look again before he headed out to buy something cold to drink.

He strolled down the streets and debated on where to get his icy beverage (Les Fleurs or the convenience store, basically), interrupted when he almost fell due to a man bumping into him. “Oi! Watch where yer fuckin’ goin’!” he spun around.

“We’re sorry!” a couple stood in front of him, instantly shaking in fear at Majima’s entire being. He stared at them from top to bottom, as if he was any less odd with his outfit, wondering what a pair of husband and wife old enough to be his parents were doing at a red light district in the middle of summer.

They waited in front of him, still with frightened eyes as if waiting for his permission to leave. “What’s a couple like ya doin’ in a place like this?” he asked out loud. They were clearly a really financially stable couple, who probably lived in a nice single-detached house on the outskirts of Tokyo. Majima was guessing they owned at least one foreign car, probably a Ford.

Had they decided to spice up their weekend by going to any random Tokyo hotspot because all their children have moved out? Majima had a lot going inside his imagination. Maybe one of the husband’s not-so-faithful colleagues had suggested Kamurocho to him when he asked where he could have some fun.

“We, er, that-“ the husband stuttered. The wife tried to subtly suggest something to him. “Yes! Maybe you could help us? We’re looking for a café here.”

“There’s tons of cafes here, ol’ man, yer bound to find one-“

“Oh, not just _any_ café.” The woman said. “A café called, uh, Les Fleurs?” Majima was guessing they must always travel to Europe every summer because he didn’t understand a single syllable when she pronounced the French name of his favourite café.

“Haw? Yer playin’ with me?” Majima looked even more terrifying.

“N-No! We’re looking for a girl who works at a café. It’s run by two sisters.”

He never could escape her, could he? Seemed like a higher power had answered his debate for him. “What business ya got at Les Fleurs?”

“W-We’re friends with the owner…”

Majima hated to admit that it seemed to make sense. The Painter did look like she was raised by parents no different than them (probably a little more strong-willed and adamant). Not that he knew much about parents. “I’ll take ya, but ya better not be causin’ any ruckus.”

 _Who was he? Some kind of bouncer?_ They thought, but they didn’t argue seeing as he clearly had the upper hand between them.

When he arrived, he almost exploded again at the sight of the Painter beaming a smile at him as he entered. On top of that, she had on a cute bodycon two-piece summer outfit in pastel purple. Again, she had her midriff exposed, something Majima was believing to be some kind a personal fashion trademark. Well, they both had one.

She looked a doll, especially with a matching headband. “Yo, think ya could fix me something super cold?” he asked.

“Maybe you can start by wearing something cooler. And I didn’t know you had more than one of that jacket.”

“It’s all I’m plannin’ to wear until I get bored. I got a few more of the same shit at home.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “How about an iced-chocolate this time?”

“If yer the one makin’ it, I want it.”

“Then one iced-chocolate it is.”

“And, uh, these fellas were lookin’ for yer café.”

“Who?”

Majima pointed to the couple and watched the look on her face change. He’s spent enough time with people to know she wasn’t particularly excited to see them. Rather, it looked as if she felt guilty towards them. “Ya don’t look too happy.”

She smiled at him, shaking her head. “Are you planning to stay here? I don’t think I’ll be able to hang out with you for a bit.”

“Naw, it’s fine, I’ll just take it to go.”

“Thanks for dropping by.”

“Pleasure.” He looked at her. “Think ya can fill me in later? Yer makin’ me worried already.”

“Later, I promise.”

He touched her chin lightly, then left her to another cycle of melancholy. What puzzle piece of her mind was it this time? He was dying to know.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wishes she was dead.
> 
> listen before i go - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f702GzF1x7s

The Painter felt like she belonged when she arrived at the cemetery grounds. She stood in front of a grave dressed in black. There was no necessity for the dress code, but the last time she wore black for him, she’d been in a state of disbelief, not mourning. Now, she was ready to accept the full extent of her loss, and her sins. At least, she would force herself to be.

The couple who Majima had led to Les Fleurs were none other than the parents of the man the Painter kept dreaming of. They were a blessing the Painter never forgot, but another two people of whom she could never find ways fitting enough to make up for the hurt she had caused them. They had come to check on her and remind her of their son’s death anniversary. “Come with us, hm?” there was a look of pity in their eyes. “Maybe it’ll help to do things like this together.”

They were far from wrong, but the Painter felt deserving of nothing but scorn. Still, it was no use supressing the darkness in her head and pretending they didn’t exist. It was time she came face to face with the truth and took responsibility for it. It was a lot to take in. Her heart felt heavy, and when his parents gave her the much needed privacy for her to pray and say unsaid words, she didn’t want to leave.

She knelt in front of his grave; her mind empty. Feelings were beginning to overwhelm her, but she had not the words to convey them. The Painter raised her gaze to read the name of the boy she once loved. She inhaled.

“It should be my name on your stone.”

She put her hands together, then closed her eyes.

It was difficult for her to admit that he had become merely a shadow because of the things she couldn’t remember about him. His voice has become soundless, and she doesn’t remember what his eyes looked like.

But she remembered his gorgeous smile and the silhouette of his back whenever he walked off after sending her home. He must have been a perfect man, and she took that away from the people who loved him. What a monster she was.

It felt wrong to even breathe and exist.

How dare she.

_How dare you, without me?_

“You can’t seriously be crying.” A voice startled her. She looked up to find a man standing, looking down at her like she was a con. She recognized that face and condescending voice anywhere.

The Painter rose to her feet, leveling her eyes with the man who called himself the best friend of the deceased. “Have you come to repent? Finally realized what the fuck you’ve done?”

The guilty look in her eyes scored a laugh out of him. “This is just precious. He’d definitely love to see this.”

She bowed her head slightly to excuse herself, and he gripped her arm before she could move. He inched his lips and whispered in her ear, as if wary of the unseen listening to their malicious exchange. “You’ll get what’s coming to you, murderer.”

“Good.” The Painter broke her silence. Yanking her arm free, she walked away, completely governed by a growing darkness she couldn’t control. The horrors of years ago felt as fresh as if it happened yesterday. Wanting nothing more than to be severely punished, she decided it best to disappear rather than to have more unwanted sympathy from his parents.

She walked back all the way to Kamurocho, eyes down, ears deafened to everything around her until she found several pairs of feet blocking her path. Looking up, she came face to face with a few faces she didn’t recognize. They wore flashy suits and smelled strongly of smoke and alcohol. Only one class of people had this kind of fashion.

“Remember us?” run-ins with the local gang weren’t new to her, but she certainly wasn’t in the mood to play words or throw fists with them.

“No,” she tried to slip between them, but one caught her by the arm, and held her hard.

“Not so fast, sweetheart.”

The Painter sighed.

“Why don’t we hang out for a bit and introduce you to someone?”

“I’m not interested.”

“But you ain’t even met him yet!” they crowded around her. “He’s a real charmer, you know. Come on, you look sour anyway, darling!”

This situation wasn’t new to her, but it was certainly a lot more aggressive than receiving presents at the café. She was unfazed, exhausted and angry. “I’m not interested in anyone who doesn’t have the balls to come to talk to me himself.”

“Watch your manners, lady.” They shifted attitudes quickly. “You’re coming with us whether you like it or not.”

“Scary.” She mocked them. Then they took out a knife. _That’s more like it._ “And what, pray tell, do you plan to do with that?”

“You don’t want to know what we can do with this.”

“Oh, I do.” She inched closer to the wielder. “Go on,” she grasped his wrist tight. For someone with such delicate fingers, her strength was bewildering. She forced the knife closer till it pressed against the skin of her throat. “What’s wrong? Cat got your balls?”

That ticked off their nerves. Oh, how easy it was to anger a man. The so-called emotionally and mentally superior half of the species could easily forget a task entrusted to them just with a few words offending their manhood. She was laughing on the inside now.

She was going to be another victim of male rage and it wouldn’t matter. As long as she went. As long as it meant disappearing for good. As long as it meant getting killed. It took three seconds for her to feel the knife press through her flesh, and her world turned black.

*

A trip to the clinic was like a trip to the convenience store.

Majima has lost count of how many times he’d ended up there to get patched up. He wasn’t the only one. Underground clinics were well funded because of men like him. Admittedly, he was one of the few patients who seemed to always show up with serious wounds.

“I see you more than I see my old patients.” the daughter of the clinic owner was a medical apprentice. Still a novice to be involved in surgeries, she spends most of her time treating wounds that weren’t fatal, such as the ones Majima always seemed to get. S

he was especially good at extracting bullets from one’s body. For some reason, he got a feeling she’d love to be the person to take out a bullet if he ever got lucky enough to get shot. For now, it was mostly stabs. “You should be a bit more careful. You know never which one’s going to land you in surgery, or worse-“

“I ain’t easy to beat, ya know!”

She grinned a little. He’s heard word that she rarely liked to talk, especially to men, but she was especially chatty with him. Majima didn’t think much of it, but he liked conversing with anyone who wasn’t a yakuza. It gave him a sense of normalcy just being able to interact with normal people and listen to their stories. “I’m guessing you’re not going to get enough rest to recover?”

“Of course not,”

“Then I’ll give you a prescription. Take it to Kotobuki. He should have the meds you need.”

“Thanks.” His bandaged stomach felt sore. The fool who did this to him had done a bad job at stabbing him, with a dull knife no less, but what stab wound didn’t hurt? Still, it was nothing packs of cigarettes and tons of alcohol couldn’t cure.

“Oh, and you’re probably not going to listen to me, but try drink less. It won’t hurt.”

“Well, what the hell am I supposed to drink now?”

“Sounds a bit old-fashioned, but maybe tea?”

Majima stopped for a second at the door. It felt like the world was teasing him. He tightened his brows. Maybe he was just overthinking. As he walked through the hallway wondering if the universe was _really_ trying to make a fool out of him, he heard a commotion several rooms away.

This was pretty normal.

He too, once had a fight in an underground clinic, but it sounded pretty serious and clinics were the last place anyone should have a brawl. “The girl belongs to us, pops.” He found three men arguing with one of the doctors.

“You can’t just take a sick patient away,”

“But you said yourself there’s nothing wrong with her, so which is it?”

“What’s goin’ on here?” Majima made his presence known as soon as he stepped into the room. It probably wasn’t necessary. Underground clinics had bouncers of their own too, but Majima was feeling a little nosy.

They turned around and upon recognizing him, bowed their heads. They must be Tojo men, judging from the pins they wore, but Majima didn’t want to admit that he had no idea who they were. “We brought a girl in, but they’re not letting us take her back.”

“She is still asleep. We don’t discharge patients who are still sick.” The doctor sounded a lot more nervous than he should, and if Majima had his hunches right, he would guess that the doctor didn’t trust the men enough to let the girl go. An idea struck his mind, and he made his way to the curtained cubicle where this said girl laid. He pulled the curtains slightly to afford himself a peak, instead feeling shocked when he saw she was none other than his favourite teamaker.

He had less of a reason to side with the lackeys now.

“What business do you have with this girl?” he curled his fists, turning to them.

“What’s it to you?”

Majima grabbed one of them by the collar. “That’s _my_ fuckin’ girl and you better start explainin’ how she ended up here before I beat it out of ya.” It didn’t sit right with him calling her his, but he needed to get them off her somehow, and Tojo men had a thing with marking girls of their choosing like they were luxurious cars and status symbols for them.

It didn’t work as much as he liked to, and as always, it ended with a good old fistfight out in the streets. “Sorry, our Boss wants her, and he gets what he wants.” Was all they had to say. Majima was itching to know who had the twisted mind to be making claims on ordinary citizens rather than hostesses or whores, and he could guess this person didn’t have the slightest respect for consent either.

Even in his wounded condition, victory was a breeze. It was a wonder the things a human body was capable of when it ran on anger. “What the fuck did you do to her?”

“Nothing! We swear! She blacked out on her own!”

Punches and broken bones didn’t seem to change their answer. They were hell bent on insisting that they hadn’t touched her at all, let alone land her on a clinic bed. “Oh? Why not just leave her there to rot then? Why go through all the trouble to bring her here.”

“Boss was really insisting on bringing her to him so we didn’t wanna lose sight of her.”

“Tch.” As much as he hated to say it, they were telling the truth. Giving them one last blow, Majima returned to the clinic to find out for himself what was wrong with her. Judging the ward she was in earlier, there was probably nothing to worry about, but heck, if he found even a scratch on her, he knew someone else was taking a trip to the hospital.

The room was dark but he could see her sitting on her bed when he came in, with her back against him. “You’re up.” He said, but there was no response. “Ya feelin’ better?” he asked. Still, there was no answer. He couldn’t even hear a sigh. He approached her, thinking nothing of her odd silence. When he got closer, she raised both her arms above her head, her hands clasped together as if holding something. A small ray of light glistened and blinded his eyes.

_No fucking way._

Majima shot his hands and grabbed her as hard as he could by her arms. Now an inch away, he confirmed his still functioning vision in his one remaining eye. He couldn’t guess where she got the knife she was holding from, but it wasn’t the most important thing at the moment. She resisted in his grasp. “Hey!” she was pretty strong for someone who was supposed to have blacked out. “What’s wrong with ya?” he looked down at her face, seeing that her eyes were completely shut.

Was she asleep?

Gathering his strength, he quickly snatched the weapon and threw it to the floor away from her.

Her strength faded, and she fell back against him.

_What the fuck was that?_

The hairs on his body began to stand. He placed a hand on the back of her neck and guided her fall so that she laid back on the bed gently. As if still, in shock, he stared at her sleeping being.

_Did she just try to kill herself in her sleep?_


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Majima, is that...really you?"
> 
> Song: Why Can't I Have You - https://youtu.be/p4S2EUPsAdE

The sound of rain pitter-pattering against the windowsill shook her from her sleep.

As she opened her eyes, she saw a wide grin smile at her. Was she in Hell already? She sat up, feeling her heart pounding against her ribs. Cold sweat was running down her neck, and she tore her choker off, feeling suffocating with them on. “Are you alright?” she turns to a voice behind her. The room was dark and she couldn’t see the owner of the voice. She slowly pushed herself backwards to the corner beside the bed in defence, her bare feet cold on the floor. She didn’t recognize where she was, but it was too dark and cool to be Hell. The chill ran up her bare thighs. Her surrounding smelled vaguely like a hospital. “Who’s there?” she asked.

“It’s me.” the voice sounded familiar.

The Painter inched towards the curtains and pulled it to the side, a stream of dim blue light shining on the face of the visitor. “You,” she murmured. The sight of the man in the snakeskin jacket didn’t put her heart to ease. “What are you doing here?”

She wasn’t sure where here was. Besides his figure, everything else was just a blurred blackness. “I came to see ya, of course.” There was something odd about the way he spoke, and how defensive he stood.

“Did you come to see me or kill me?”

“Why would I wanna hurt you?” he kept coming closer and closer despite how obvious it was that she was uncomfortable.

“Who are you?”

“You know who I am.” His entire façade faded into the smile she dreaded. She felt a sudden grip on her throat.

She let out a gasp as she jerked up in her bed, her entire body trembling. “Hey.” A pair of warm, gloved hands held her by her tight arms, and she raised her shaky gaze to meet the comfort of a familiar face. A face she knew wasn’t a dream. She closed her eyes, feeling a mix of cold and hot and she pressed a palm against her forehead, breathing heavily as she tried to adjust to the sudden shifts in reality.

“I’m sorry.” She swallowed. “I’m so sorry.”

“S’alright.”

The Painter slowly got off the bed. It was raining outside, much like in her sleep, and she pushed the window open to inhale the outside air. Majima watched her from behind. Not long ago, a woman came by to check on the other patients. He’s seen her before. She was one of the more senior medical caretakers. Upon seeing the girl deep in sleep, she muttered things that didn’t quite make sense.

“She’s looking for the light.” She said, shaking her head.

“The light?”

“She can wait by the pier all she wants, but no boat’s going to come.”

_Boat? Light? What on earth was she talking about?_

When she approached the Painter to check on her pulse and her condition, she then said, “But it looks like she’s making one on her own.”

“Granny, you’re not makin’ any sense.”

She sighed her grey eyes filled with pity. “Death. She’s looking for death.” Majima’s mind shot back to her unconscious body attempting to stab herself. “You better be careful where you keep your knives, boy.”

Was she now wallowing in the failure of not crossing the other side? She finally turned around after accepting the dreamless state she was in. She looked around the room. “Is this one of those hidden clinics?” she asked. She hadn’t been in one before, but many of her customers talk about it.

Majima nodded. “Ya feelin’ better?”

“I’m not sure why I’m here in the first place, but it’s nothing serious.” It sounded a lot like a lie, but Majima was more concerned about how bad she’s got it that she thinks everything she was dealing with was ‘nothing serious’. “Probably just a little dizzy.”

“Do you remember what happened?”

“I was walking home, and I ran into a couple of guys. And that’s it.”

The shortness of her answer said nothing more than how much she wanted to hide whatever it is was messing with her mind, but Majima has seen enough to let her get away with it. “Yer a goddamn shitty liar.”

His change in tone certainly caught her attention. She didn’t respond, nor did she confirm his accusation. “Ya tried to kill yerself, didn’t cha? Ran into the wrong crowd and decided it was a good chance to piss some people off.”

He’d beaten every single detail out of the men from earlier, including the words she said, how she’d provoked them deliberately just so she’d get hurt enough it might kill her. “Did you stay here just to say that?”

“No,” he wanted her to look him in the eyes and try to lie again, but she kept her gaze still on the bed, aimless and empty. “I waited ‘cos you almost hurt yourself in your sleep.” He didn’t know what he felt inside. It made him uncomfortable and restless; this anger, this sadness this- “Why? Why are ya tryin’ so hard to hurt yourself?” he demanded.

“What’s it to you? If you knew I wanted it, why stop me? Why didn’t you leave?” she looked him in the eyes with a gaze that was blurring from tears. _Why did you stay?_

That second when their eyes met felt like a mistake.

Even on the brink of tears, she could see him as vulnerable as he’s always been to her, as he forbade himself. The more he raised his voice the more she heard answers she didn’t want to hear: that he would stay no matter how many times she picked up a knife in her sleep, and no matter how many times she told him not to.

They tore their gazes away, and he forgot the fury inside of him. She had looked into his soul again, without meaning too. Looked into things he didn’t want her to see. But how could he blame her when he left it for her to see? Acted around her as if parading the words he could never say out loud.

Awkward silence ensued. “I’m sorry.” She said first. “I feel bad that I troubled you.” Majima scoffed.

“That’s a funny way to say thank you.” His humour didn’t make her feel any better. “Lie back down. Ya need to rest.”

“I think I slept too much already.” She lifted herself back up on the bed and leaned against the wall. She gestured for him to sit beside her. He obliged.

“Huh, we fit on this lil’ bed.” He said, sitting tightly next to her.

“It’s a bit snug, but I’m feeling a little cold.” She said. “I guess I owe you a proper explanation, huh?”

“You sure do.”

“Get comfortable then. It’s a long story and I don’t plan on making it short.

“I’m plenty comfy next to ya.” He pulled her in close and she rested her head on his shoulder. The Painter breathed calmly.

“The couple you helped the other day, they’re my ex-boyfriend’s parents. Today’s the fifth anniversary of his…passing.” In the half a year he knew her, this was the first that he knew her beyond the composed, cool girl he knew. Her voice was quieter than usual, as if she was afraid that if she talked too loudly, he could hear how sad she was. “Today’s the second time I went to visit him.” She scoffed. “More like the first, since the last was at his funeral.”

“The man ya got into an accident with, that was yer ex?”

She nodded. “He was everyone’s dream guy.” He never heard her sound so cinematic. He lifted his head to look at her, and when she returned his glance, it felt like she was talking about him. When she looked back down and leaned against him, she looked nothing more than tragic. “I don’t know a single person who doesn’t love him. Makes me feel worse that I lived and he didn’t.”

“Ya say that like no one loves ya.”

“Some do,” she said. “But I surely don’t.” it was hard to believe that she loathed herself enough to die. She seemed so carefree, so impulsive, so calm. She made a blasphemous, wild little district look so grand and heavenly. If Majima could make a smart guess, she was nothing like the freak, plain thing she thought she was, even next to the magnificent description of her ex-boyfriend. They were probably both at the top of their games, the best of the best. A picturesque couple. The only difference between them both was that one knew it and the other didn’t.

“He was 2 years my senior, and it was summer when he died. He was driving us out on the highway, in the middle of the night. I don’t remember why I was out that late. To tell you the truth, I don’t remember a lot of things about him.” She fiddled with her cartoonic, dancing fingers. “I just remember the things I felt, but I can never why. I wasn’t sad when he died, but I felt like I was responsible for it, so it must have been my fault, you see?”

Majima could see the logic of her words. Emotions demanded to be felt and remembered. Even when the very things that caused it were erased and forgotten, sometimes the anguish stayed. It was like his nightmares. He doesn’t remember all the physical pain of that one-year torture he went through, but he sure as hell remembered how frightened he was. It was why he had nightmares in the first place.

But he knew better emotions were nowhere near as reliable as the mind. If he let himself be devoured by his feelings he would have been dead by now.

“I need to know what I did, but I don’t even remember the last thing I said to him. Or the last thing he said to me. I just remember how I cried because I didn’t want to go to his funeral. I couldn’t stand looking at his picture. Now I don’t even know what he looks like.”

_Except for a smile._

“So you paint.”

“It’s foolish, because you can only dream about things inside your head, but I keep hoping maybe one day my dreams could show me all the things I forgot about him, and all the things I forgot that I did. That way I can stop asking ‘What if?’.”

“What if I didn’t see him that day, what if I pretended everything was okay, what if I never was with him at all? All the things I could have done that could have avoided the accident.”

Majima has never been one to look into the past. He couldn’t even look into the future. In a life like his, it was always the “there and then”. But his coping methods were nowhere near healthy, to say the least. The only reason he could pretend he moved on was because in truth, he was always running away from it. They could tell him to fight a thousand men but he wouldn’t confront his past even if his life depended on it. Especially if it was about a past killing.

He’d personally never took someone’s life before and though he knew the Painter didn’t kill her ex-flame, she believed she did. That alone must have snapped something inside her the way it does any other murderer. To her, she’s crossed that line, even if she didn’t mean to, and now it was her weight to carry.

But instead of running away, she looked right at it, and when it ceased to exist, she chased after it.

Was she insane, or just fearless?

“Now, I feel even worse, but I still don’t remember a thing. It’s probably why I keep dreaming about the same thing over and over again. I wouldn’t remember falling asleep, and he’d just stand there in my room, asking if I miss him.”

The painting of a mysterious shadow of a man crossed Majima’s mind. Was it him she’s been painting? He concealed a shiver. “I’ve almost slipped so many goddamn times.” She lifted her hands to see it trembling slightly. “A single second and maybe I’d be too dead to tell you this tale.”

She curled her fingers. “But I’ve been staying in my dreams lately. Just looking at him, trying to make him real.”

She didn’t want to tell Majima that the face of the shadow has become none other than him, and that for the first time since the accident, she felt genuinely afraid of falling back asleep. Being there with him, listening to his voice, remembering every single detail about him wasn’t going to help her overcome her dreams, but she couldn’t keep away. “I’m guessing I can’t make you stay away if I ever slip.”

“Darn right. I think we’ve gone too far for me to pretend I don’t care ‘boutcha. Nothin’ you don’t already know.”

“Even if it’s useless?”

He didn’t say anything. She knew the answer to that too, so why even ask? “You don’t get to tell me what to do.” He said, his voice gruff. He didn’t want her to take responsibility for his decisions. She had enough on her shoulders.

“Can I ask you for a favour then?”

“Anythin’.”

“Don’t tell anyone. I don’t want them to lock me away at some hospital. I’d think I’d turn even more insane if I did. They almost did it once.”

“I won’t tell a soul.” He promised her. “I swear on my life.”

“No! Not on your life.” She frowned. An amused grin crept up on his lips.

“Ya feel bad so easily ‘n yer tryin’ ta tell me yer a cold-hearted killer. Don’t really make much sense, does it?”

She smiled to herself. It was nice that when she saw herself as nothing but evil, there was someone who believed in her.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song: Almost Is Never Enough - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TKVsRBjMWuk

“What was that?” the Painter snapped her head up like an alerted rabbit. Majima was set on his feet. “What are they doing here?” she looked out the window. “Tch.” She saw the three men who had hounded her earlier making their way to the entrance.

“Come on,” Majima took her by her hand and led her out. They didn’t do well to escape fast enough, and what was meant to be a soundless, swift escape turned into a chase. Though the Painter had decently long, lean legs, it was a struggle to keep up with Majima’s speed. Twice, she accidentally skipped a step and almost tripped.

They lost the trackers in a hidden alley, catching their breaths after the adrenaline-filled sprint. The Painter dropped her things, including her heeled shoes. “You were barefoot?”

“I don’t move well in heels.” She dropped on her rear.

“Somethin’ wrong?” he watched her bring up the sole of her foot.

“Shit.” She said, panting. There was a rather large shard of glass stuck in her flesh. “Must’ve stepped on it by accident.” She reached her hand to pull it out, but he stopped her.

“Looks real bad.” He tugged her arm and put it over his shoulder.

“You’re not carrying me.” She said. “I can take it out and walk.”

The look on his face mocked her like she was a biggest fool, and ignoring her suggestion, he lifted her up.

“I swear it doesn’t hurt. You can put me down.”

“S’Fine. I’m takin’ ya to my place. Just around the corner. Unless ya’d rather I take ya back to your place and let your sister see you like this?”

“This isn’t very ‘mad’ of you.”

“You’re welcome, and my madness doesn’t apply to normal peeps like ya.”

“Thank you.”

“By the way, what’s the deal with the men who keep comin’ after ya? Ya owe them somethin’?”

“Nothing that serious. Their boss keeps asking me to go out with him. Of course, I turned him down. But he’s been very…well, to be frank I say he’s being an entitled, psychopathic prick.”

Majima scoffed. “Sounds about right. S’weird he’d go after ya so hard like that. Not that you’re not attractive or anythin’-“ she looked at the way he paused, as if regretting what he said. “-but you’re not in that biz. ‘Sides, a no is a no, right? Maybe they need a lesson in that.”

“Don’t fight them.” She said, her voice laced with worry. “They’re harmless most of the time. It _is_ annoying having to ignore them and tell them to go away-“ there was a sigh in a voice.

“S’not my place to say it cos I’m a man ‘n all, but wouldn’t ya rather they leave ya alone forever?”

She said nothing. He knew his power as a man, and as a family man. She knew his “no” meant more than hers, and it would be easier to just accept his help, but in a mere one night he’s already saved her twice.

Majima’s apartment was located a few blocks outside of the district, in the posher side of town. A red-carpeted lobby with a chandelier greeted them. The security guard on duty that night looked at them weird, and when he asked out of concerned, Majima merely replied saying the girl he carrying was drunk and on the verge of spilling her guts out. The Painter almost laughed at his excuse.

“Didn’t know you stayed outside the district.”

“Couldn’t find any decent places there. It’s still pretty close though.” There was a mix of woody and chemical-like smell when he welcomed her into his residence. Befittingly, she saw the plastic covers filling the barren space of his home, like he had ordered all the furniture he wanted but never had the chance to enjoy. “Sorry for the uh-, well kind of a mess.”

“More like a lack of mess.”

Majima aggressively pulled the covers of one of the couches, setting it aside before he aided the Painter to sit. “I feel bad for messing up your new place.”

“Nothing’s new. I just don’t come back that often.” He browsed his similarly unused cabinets from the squeaky-clean kitchen. He used the space mostly to stash bandages and whatever medical drugs he bought in the past. There wasn’t a complete first aid kid, but his life was rough and he never really had time to be too particular and neat. So long his wounds stopped bleeding and were covered sufficiently, that was good enough. Still, with the Painter in pain like that, he wished he kept a complete first-aid kit.

“So where do you sleep?”

“I sleep here, s’just that-“

“You’d rather be out and about than at home, right?”

“Yeah, kinda.” She noticed the troubled, almost insecure look on his face. He sat next to her, then placed her leg on his lap very slowly and gently.

“You don’t have to be so careful, you know.”

“Are ya kiddin’?! What if ya get an infection or some shit like that?”

“Well, I trust you.” She shrugged. “Or, I can still pull it out myself if you don’t want to.”

“Naw, I got this.” He tugged his gloves off with his teeth, stretching his fingers before examining the wound.

“I’m sure you’ve gone through worse.”

“It’ll hurt to walk for a while,”

“Looks like I’m stuck here, then.”

“Hold onto somethin’. I’ll pull it out as fast as I can, okay?” he gripped her ankle with one hand and aimed the shard with another. The Painter grit her teeth. “Count to three.”

“Okay. One, two-“

He snapped the shard out before she got to three. She bit her tongue, her tongue filling with the taste of her blood. The after-sting was more painful than she anticipated, but bearable enough not to cry about. As expected, her sole began to bleed. Majima pressed some tissues he found against the opening, then quickly set it in place with some bandage. He made a quick work of her foot. It was neater than he claimed to have confidence in.

He held up the shard. “It’s half the size of yer foot. Some fools must have gotten too drunk and forgot where ta throw their trash.”

“Thanks. I’m a piece of work, huh?” she slowly lifted her leg off him and shifted deeper into the couch. “Did I dirty your couch?”

“Ya didn’t. Don’t worry about it. ‘Sides, like ya said, I’ve seen worse.” It was meant to be some sort of dark humour, and though he didn’t mean to scare her, he was genuinely surprised to see the curiosity flick like a light in her eyes. It was like when she gazed at his tattoo. The sparkle in her eyes, _goddamn those eyes._

“Think you’ll ever tell me about what ‘worse’ is?”

He knew if she kept looking at him like that, he’ll spill ever drop of his tar black soul. It wasn’t just her eyes. He knew she’d handle someone as rough and invincible as him with care. “Nothin’ interesting for ya to know.”

“That’s what you said when I asked about your tats.”

She had a point there. He knew if he did a pop quiz right there and then, she would remember every single detail and get everything correct. She was like a bank of secrets of the people around her; a fountain of soul parts of different individuals who dared spill them to her.

“I’ve been meaning to ask, but what happened to you?” she pointed to his bandaged torso. He’d forgotten he had gotten stabbed just a few hours ago.

“This? Just an idiot who didn’t know how to use a knife.”

“That doesn’t really sound like something I shouldn’t be worried about.”

“It’s nothin’, believe me. He didn’t even know where to stab. Just feels like a pinch.”

“You’re an idiot, you know.”

“What’s a gangster if he ain’t gettin’ stabbed once in a while, right?”

“You must be invincible.”

“Ya darn right I am!” he laughed. The smile on her face looked weak. “You look a lil’ pale. Should I get ya somethin’ ta drink?”

“That’d be nice. Water’s fine.”

“Ya sure? I got a whole collection of neat drinks.”

“You must drink a lot, huh?”

“Booze is my fuel.” He said proudly before serving his guest her drink.

“Can I tell you another secret?” she asked.

“Sure.” Majima took out a cigarette. It was the second last before his pack would empty.

“How many men were there? When you saw them the first time at the clinic?”

“Three.”

She was quiet for a moment, as if dreading the answer, and accepting it at the same time. “I saw four when I blacked out. There were three at first, and then I saw a fourth man. I thought I must have not noticed him when they talked to me. Then I realized when they came back looking for me. There was never a fourth man.”

“Was it him?”

“I couldn’t tell. Before I knew it, I’d gotten stabbed. Guess I had it coming, provoking Death like that.”

“Do you always get killed in your dreams? Sounds horrible.”

“It was bad at first, but I got the hang of it, managed to jump out of dreams pretty easily.”

It was no wonder then how she knew so much about what was going on with him, and how to pull him out before he got in too deep with the illusions in his mind. “I was hell bent on getting whatever was coming to me today. Thought I’d be a goner before the day was out.”

She smiled, raising her arms, then laughing. “Even put on this dress he gave me. Suits, doesn’t it? And it’s in black.” She sighed. “Though, it’s a little bit short on me now than it was then.” She inhaled, then turned around to the large glass windows behind them - a spectacle overlooking the neon haven she called her home. “It looks so pretty from up here.”

“Yeah, it does.” He said, even though his gaze hasn’t shifted from her. He had to admit to himself that this former flame of hers knew how to dress his sweetheart. Black was such a tragic colour and she wore it like it existed just for her. She was a haunting beauty in the blue light, looking almost monochrome.

But she looked like she was suffocating in the dress.

True, no other colour fit her better, but it hurt to parade it like a runway model. Black was like her crown of thorns.

The Painter glanced upwards as if trying to dry what looked like a thin layer of tear on her eyes. “Hey,” He snapped out of his dream-like trance. “Don’t cry.”

“I’m not.” She said. She wasn’t completely lying, but if anything, she looked like she was on the verge of breaking, like a vase tipping off the table edge. He inched closer towards her, holding her by her shoulders.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” the way she looked outside it was as if she saw a speck of hope in the doomed concrete, neon-laced jungle. Then her eyes turned dark. “And everything.” She looked at him, a small smile of what she could manage gracing her lips. “But that’s life, isn’t it?”

_I know you have those moments too._

“It’s just deciding whether or not you want to go on.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After spending the night together, the Painter has to make a choice between staying and leaving.
> 
> Song: I Don't Want You Back - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_w0iwhEOH3k

_Who hurt you?_

The Painter looked dreaded to the white marble floor. Another drop surprised her. A trail of ice-like chill ran down her porcelain legs. A line of red liquid graced her pale skin. She looked up to the mirror in front of her. The reflection of her naked body was shaking. Then the room began to spin. She held onto the edge of the sink. She wanted to run away, but her legs couldn’t hold her.

She collapsed.

When she opened her eyes, she saw the face she remembered, and she sighed in relief. Majima slept rather soundly next to her; a sleep she knew he hadn’t enjoyed in a long time. He looked pretty when he was at peace. Of course, it wasn’t like she wouldn’t stare at him all day even on his normal “mad” days.

He had tried to ask her not to “leave” in his own way. She could tell from the beginning he wasn’t good with words or saying poetic things, but to make up for it, he was a decent kisser. Or maybe she was just sad. Either way, she didn’t regret landing in his bed this time around.

The Painter sat up, pulling the covers to look under her legs. The sheets she slept on was as clean as when she first lied on it. She’d hate to embarrass herself in front of her host like that. He’d seen enough of her blood.

She straightened her back, pulling her hair over her bare shoulders. The bathroom wasn’t just a dream. The blood wasn’t just a scare tactic. It was a horror she had forgotten, but a horror that happened nonetheless.

_Who?_

She picked up her undergarments and put them back on, slipping out of bed and standing by the long windows. The glass felt cold against her palm. _Who hurt me?_ The only other person she ever slept with was _him._ But it couldn’t be, could it? “Was it you?” she whispered into the barrier that kept her apart from the rained city. As she raised her eyes to the reflection in the glass, she gasped. Behind her a grin shone, and with it, a pair of glowing crimson eyes. Reflexively, she fell a few steps back, stopped by a hard body against her.

“Easy there.” Majima’s voice was husky.

“Sorry,”The smell of smoke eased her worries, and she loosened her shoulders as she let him hold her from behind.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?”

“Nothing.” Small, faint, flashes of imaged returned to her mind, fresh from the attic of her memory archives. A pair of hands on her throat, her wrists, and a phrase that echoed in her head over and over again.

_You’re mine._

The Painter’s fingers curled, and Majima saw it. “Did I wake you?” she asked, eyes still set on the glass.

“Nah.” He tried to follow her gaze, but he saw nothing. She, on the other hand, could see the shadow looming over her other shoulder, and it was like she had two men watching from either side; one trying to pull her down and the other trying to hold her to reality.

Then, she gently pulled his arms away, turned around, cupped his face in her hands and kissed him hard on his lips. He wasn't too surprised at her initiating intimate interactions, but he knew she was keeping something from him. Though it was hard to think about when both of them were drowning in an ecstatic make-out session. "What was that for?" he asked, his grin a clear indicator that he enjoyed the taste of her warm candy-sweet lips on his.

"Live like there's no tomorrow, right?" She ran her hand through his hair.

"I'd do a hell lot more to ya if there's no tomorrow." he grabbed her by the waist and pinned her down. She laughed like a dollish Valley girl, wrestling with him and purposely letting him land his attacks on her. He would win if she tried anyway and she'd be darned if he lost. For once, they both felt stupid and happy; chasing each other between the folds of the messed-up bedsheets until he caught her with his brute arms and she admitted defeat - or in his embrace, a win. As they panted after their short chasing game, he pecked her lightly on her back. She brought his fingers to her lips.

"When can I paint you?"

"Yer serious 'bout that? Ya in love with me or somethin'?"

"What if I am?" He was the brute but she was a lot more fearless than he was. "Does love scare you? A big _mean_ , gangster like you?" she had taunted him humorously in a cartoonic, melodious voice, but it stayed in his mind longer than he wanted it to. He was holding her, wasn't he? He'd engaged in a child-like play with her willingly, blatantly forgetting for a moment of who he was to the outside world.

"This doesn't fit me, does it?"

"What? Love?"

"Whatever the heck 'this' is."

"You...have never been with anyone special before?"

"I see girls. Sometimes."

The Painter shook her head. "I'm not talking about sex. I'm talking about dating, platonic relationships-"

"Ya spewin' things I don't understand, girl."

"None of this makes sense to you, does it?”

"Can't say it does."

She giggled. “It doesn’t make sense to me either, but I like it.”

“Huh? Thought ya said ya had a boyfriend.”

The Painter’s gaze dropped. “I…don’t remember what it was like with him.” He could see her drifting into another dark abyss. An abyss that was empty of everything she was looking for. When she looked back at him, she smiled. “I don’t need to be careful around you. I like how that feels.”

“Ain’t that how you should be around everyone?” it was new to him that anything about her was a result of careful thought.

“It wasn’t how I was before, believe it or not.”

“Ya mean ya weren’t a rebel back in school?”

She shook her head. “I was a good student, always got in the top 5 in exams, tied my hair, kept my skirt long.” She laughed. “Kind of funny to think about. I wasn’t the nerdiest girl but following the rules was just…a lot more practical than having to get nagged at.”

“Betcha weren’t interested in a guy like me if we met back then.”

“And you? What were you like?”

“I skipped classes, picked fights, but I still respected my teachers. I dropped out the first chance I had, and I don’t regret it one bit.”

“And look where you are now. I don’t know what I was thinking. After the accident, I cut my skirt short, painted my nails and wore makeup to school. It was kind of embarrassing, but it was the first time I broke rules, and it was fun.”

The boys looked at her, the girls were more than willing to teach her the tips and tricks of beauty and the teachers all worried for her, befittingly, because her new makeover had been nothing but a coping mechanism after the accident and the failed suicide attempt. She pushed herself more than ever before.

University was difficult but the Painter stayed up and lost sleep trying to balance her grinding with the culture of youth. She’s met everyone and has done everything. She’s danced and sang to break the hearts of boys who found her pretty. She smiled at everybody she sees, and bat her cool eyes when they gave her a second glance just to see how well her sister’s café would do if she gave them the illusions of her attention.

She’d been unlucky to have the Mad Dog catch her during her off-guard moments, and though the fear of his beastly strength sat in her mind, she still chose to get to know this budding gangster celebrity. Her careful recklessness had been just an excuse to let her feelings take the reins this time, and with that he had opened to her a look into his soul, and she read his secrets in a language even he didn’t understand.

Her attitude has made tongues mention her name, and the more he talked to her, the more he understood the lens of which the people viewed this young small starlet. She wasn’t a pleasure-seeker but her desire to explore the hedonism around her made people attached to her on a non-personal level. They would miss her if she went, and they assumed she would miss her life too, entirely ignorant that when she’s alone in the cubicle of her mind, she was willing to jump into the netherworld the moment the door opened for her. He’s seen her sit on the edge like off a high building overlooking a beautiful skyline, when all there was below her was a rushing sea of blackness that reeked of the saddening smells of the past.

“You don’t look like you break rules for fun, even though you look that way.” She said.

“Really?” as always, she described him perfectly. “I lost this eye cos I broke rules, ya know.” He said proudly, but her smile suggested she knew he was no senseless rebel, though she didn’t pursue him on the subject. “Hey,”

“Hm?”

“The last time we did it-“ she could see a blush rise to his embarrassed face. “Did I hurt ya?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Naw, s’just-“ God, talking about sex was embarrassing, especially when he was doing it with someone he cared about. It didn’t feel so bad with a whore he paid good money for, although if he was being honest, he wasn’t a man who liked to hurt women, whether or not he purchased it. “-just wanna make sure, s’all.”

The way she looked at him it was as if the words he said fleeted in her mind, and all she could see was another film-like illusion of him. He didn’t feel like he belonged when she gazed at him like that. He didn’t feel like he belonged when she made him feel like he was an exquisite, beautiful creature. “Please don’t tell me you’re like this with your boys.”

“Haw? ‘Course not.”

“Not even normal guys are this careful around the girls they love.” She said. He wondered if her words were a lie, just like the way she saw him. “You didn’t hurt me. I would have said no if you did.”

It eased him a little to hear that she respected herself to say no when she needed to. She was such a quiet person and so generous in the way she treated him that he was afraid that what he gave in return was nothing but pain, even if her actions said otherwise.

“You should get back to sleep. It’s still early.” Her touches were mesmerizing. If he could have it his way, he would have asked her to sing like a needy dog, but the magic she concocted on him did its work and he fell into a hazy pleasure as he dozed off to sleep with the warm tingle of her fingers against his face.

Just before the sun rose, he woke up stretching his arms over the cold space next to him. When he rubbed his eye and opened them, he was lying on his bed alone. Had last night been a dream? If so, why did it taste like sugar on his lips when he licked them? The soreness on his abs was finally settling in. It hurt to move, but it was nothing Majima wasn’t used to. He picked himself up and looked for her, noticing how neat and tight the bedsheet was on her side, and how she attempted to neatly set the covers over it. _She didn’t have to…_

The living room was empty too, and a lot more welcoming than when he first took her in. She had gotten rid of all the cardboards, ties and plastic covers that had hid away the minimum décor that he could afford to get with the lack of time he had to think about his neat little home. A smile on his lips, he felt a little proud to see that his tastes in interior furnishing wasn’t half bad, but he wished he could have spent a little more time tidying things so that he could show her himself, and not the other way round.

The medical things he used to treat her foot had been cleared away, and so had the glasses they drank out of. It was almost as if she had never been there at all. Even the smell of new furniture was replaced with a sweet scent that could only be the Painter’s perfume. She must have used it in absence of an air freshener, but he didn’t complain.

But the sight of a note on his fridge told him he hadn’t been dreaming. On it, she wrote:

“You should come home more often. Thanks for everything.” Her note was short and simple, and the way she wrote it, he felt as if they were sharing a house, another idea he entertained in the more optimistic, imaginative parts of his corrupted mind. Where his mind was darkest, he wondered why she didn’t tell him “Come see me soon,” like she always does whenever she said goodbye.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kitten, where did you go?
> 
> Song: Only One Who Knows - https://youtu.be/d82zxqZHUo8

He wondered why he always lied awake on Friday nights, or rather on Saturday mornings. He didn't complain. There was always a place he could go to, a person who would be there when he looked for her. He was like a dazed love-stricken boy, humming in the dark dusk of the empty neighbourhood, but when he reached there, the café was unlit and dark. He peered inside the windows, as if holding onto foolish hope that she might be hiding behind the tables or the counter.

She wasn't.

Majima dragged himself to the office, the chill of the night suddenly hitting him harder than it should. As he sat in his office on his own, swaying in his large chair, he wondered if he should page her. Maybe she was just asleep. Maybe she was sick. Was she fine? Should he check on her? He kept checking his watch, counting the hours till the café opened. When he finally realized how mentally manic he was about this girl, he berated himself for it. This is stupid, he thought. He couldn't be thinking about girls. Why had he let her dwell in the deepest crevices of his mind? It was time to stop, he told himself. 

A week passed like a breeze. He hasn't seen the Painter at all, nor had he heard from her. Her sister didn't appear so worried as he was. He plucked up the courage to ask one day. The hospitable smile faded as soon as he mentioned her.

"Are you in love with her?” her mean eyes looked at him as if it was shameless of him to even ask. “I feel sorry for you.”

"S'cuse me?" he didn't think his genuine worry would end up hurting his feelings but darn she made him regret even asking at all.

“You’re not the first person to ask that.”

"Well is she comin’ back?"

"Who knows?" She smiled. “She walked out with a suitcase and hasn’t been back since.” Her tone suggested they had a small argument before the Painter left. Maybe she had even plucked Majima’s name as the Painter had her uncaring back turned to her sister. _What about him?_ “Take my advice: It’s not worth waiting for someone who doesn’t bother saying goodbye to you.” He could tell she probably had nothing in return to say to her. Not even a goodbye.

Nothing that she said sounded like the Painter, but he knew she wasn’t lying. 

For a man who'd vow never to listen to anyone's words, he was taking her words a little too personally. Did she really just disappear without so much as a word? Did she think he wasn't worth telling? Had the gesture she’d done back in his apartment before he left been nothing but her way of saying goodbye? A way to ease the guilt of disappearing on him? Did she even feel sorry?

It couldn’t be. She had let a conversation go on, entertaining verbally the idea of loving him, of adoring his being. She had made him feel so darn special to her that he was convinced nothing could stop her feelings from being what it is, not even him, and not even the threads of fate if they tried.

Anger flickered in his eyes like a forest catching fire. Majima went on a full rampage that day. The batting cages were too mild to fulfill his violent appetite. Like a predatory lunatic, he fought with every fool who dared provoke him and by the end of the night, his clothes had turned red and blood stained his unscarred body. It was his own mistake that he had let her in like an invited guest in the hellish pits of his being. Like a dove, she brought with her a promise of peace with her feathery touches and her songbird voice. A little, black dove.

But birds couldn’t be caged lest they die so beautifully like prisoners.

Was it wrong that he trusted her not to leave the little golden cage that he wanted be trapped in with her?

What did it matter? She was gone now. It was proof that when he was the one standing and waiting, it’d be the other one who would walk away. God, he was such a fool.

On the other side of the bustling city, in the quiet darkness of a suburban high school, the Painter sat in what used to be her classroom. “These goddamn memories.” She murmured to herself. Knowing that she had it all then; the bliss of ignorance, the bliss of angst on the most trivial things, the way her heart leapt at the smallest of things, like the three seconds when he passed by her class and flashed his cocky smile, and the way she’d roll her eyes at him just to purposely piss him off – knowing he would corner her in the evening when school ended and press her about it just to get a teasing kiss out of her.

A week before, as she lied in a man’s loving embrace, her mind took a slow trip down memory lane. Whenever she remembered the way Majima touched her so gently and considerately, peering into her eyes every few seconds, her mind banished them with images of a demonic smile, and hands that bruised her wrists against expensive sheets. There was a fine line between Majima’s gentle kisses, and another man’s kisses that made her lips bleed and made her suffocate, though they both tasted like smoke. The blood that trickled between her legs, and the pain that made her pass out – as compared to the joy of seventh heaven that he had given her twice now.

The Painter had to pull her hands away from her the man she laid with to avoid digging her nails into his skin, and she crawled out in fear as the gaze she had forgotten, returned to the hollow spaces of her mind.

“Kitten,”

She gasped, and quickly whipped her head to the unlit hallway outside the classroom. A shadow zoomed past. “Wait!” she chased after it, the ghostly figure swiftly fading in and out of the air in front of her like a tease.

She couldn’t do it anymore, she couldn’t let anyone inside the dark space between the four walls that guarded her past; not her parents, not her sister, and not _him_. As she wore out the shivers and trembles on his cold bedroom floor while he slept soundly, dreaming sweetly to the last memory of holding her in his arms, she forced herself up, put her black dress back on, and limped her way back home. The shadow had come back, and he was beckoning out to her to return to him, and this time around, she couldn’t say no.

The figure didn’t appear for some time, and the Painter had to make do with whatever she had to reconstruct the pathetic pile of rubble that was her past. She had never been much of a sneak, nor was she good at breaking and entering, but she remembered the school archives that they kept in a dusty room in the back of a library. Thankfully, her school never really paid much attention to security and she could make as much noise trying to get herself inside.

She thought when she burned everything she had of him, she could move on and sweep the ashes under a rug, but her feelings were fireproof. Now, the impending guilt that had started out as a mere spark consumed her entire being and with the ashes it rebuilt what she now believes to be her past, a blurry vision of a shadow that won’t leave her, and a scarier reflection of herself, a murderer, a villain.

Fortunately, it was easy to find a school celebrity in the worn-out pages of the school yearbooks. The moment she saw the square cut picture of his face, she exhaled. His cocky grin was his confidence of a promising future, his eyes were a threat to anyone looking at them that he would conquer the world, and maybe a few hearts. Oh, she remembered him now. How meaner his gaze was when he looked at her. That fire for ambition was brighter when it was her.

She read his name below his face.

“Izumi..” she said in a whisper. The shadow reappeared again and when she looked up, he was no longer faceless.

“Stop avoiding me.”

The Painter closed the yearbook and put it back where she found it. She felt a shiver down her spine, and a stronger sense of grief gripping her veins.

“You hate it here. Why do you keep lying to yourself, kitten?” that kind voice, that tone only she had the privilege to hear. She knew he was looking at her, his eyes never leaving her. That was how he used to look at her, as if capturing every single expression in her eyes. And she, like now, never had the guts to return his gaze.

How cruel, how cold, how heartless she was.

Every single word he said was true. Every night, it hurts her just to lie and be with her thoughts on her cold bed. It hurts to dream, and it hurts even more to open her eyes. Nothing a suffocating bruise on her neck could match the struggle of running in circles just to avoid the cold truth.

“You’re only going to hurt more people if you stay.” He wrapped his arms around her, and he pressed his face next to hers. “Even that guy you like.”

When she returned to her parents’ home, she locked herself in her own room, crying her eyes out on the very bed that had heard her tears five years ago when Izumi died. Every wonderful memory of him in all his glory and magnificence illuminated her mind, and the happier she remembered herself, the more it stung.

It all became more and more apparent that she had something good going on, and somebody she didn’t deserve who loved her. How she wished she could have traded places with him on the night it all changed. She would have missed a lot of things, but it didn’t matter. Nobody would miss her. Maybe they would, for a day or two, but she would be damage that everyone could get over. What was the point of her surviving if she hated it every single second?

As she cried herself to sleep, the violet petals on the skin of her neck began to thicken and brighten.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chance encounter between the Painter and Majima.
> 
> Song: No Time to Die - https://youtu.be/GB_S2qFh5lU

The best cure to emotions was work, or so Majima theorized. It wasn’t like he ever had any other options. The other option he only ever had was getting thrown in the hole, and he wasn’t keen on falling again. When Shimano heard news of his little pet going rabid again, Majima had expected to be reminded of the man that held the leash. To his surprise, Shimano sent him out like a hound dog on his first hunt. He counted it as a blessing; Shimano’s tasks were never easy, and it gave him little time to think at all.

Rumours were circulating about Shimano giving Majima the credit that he deserved. Though he had a fearless and vicious reputation, to the people who knew, he was just another chained beast; dangerous, but caged, nonetheless. He’d never complained, and he wasn’t so power-hungry that he’d defy his superiors. To him, it was the way things are in the world that he chose. In fact, he could consider himself doing fairly well to be made family captain the moment he was reabsorbed into the Tojo clan, and at his young age.

Still, it wasn’t like he didn’t know his place. When Shimano gave him dirtier jobs to deal with, he took it gladly without a second thought. Whatever his patriarch had in mind for him was none of his concern. To him, it was something to get his mind off things (and people) that shouldn’t matter (but did).

Whenever it was time to go home, he would take long routes through the empty streets just to avoid having to see the neat mess she made that in his house that one time she came over. It was nice to have those insufficient moments without any of his subordinates or family man to keep up an act with, but pure peace of mind was something he couldn’t afford without having to fight the thoughts that he pushed away when he had to be the Mad Dog. Still, any part silence was better than none.

He tried to stall time as much as he could. He thought of not going home at all. Anything to make this lack of feelings last a little longer.

And just as he thought he owned the night, the thing he feared most came to him.

The Painter had revisited every single corner where remnants of his existence lingered and caught dust. From his room to hers, the attic where his belongings remained untouched, the run-down café where they used to “study” that was on the verge of going out of business, the park where they played and had their first kiss. She had even stopped at the side of the highway where he laid dead in front of her eyes. Sitting on the hood of the car, she recollected the last few seconds of his life.

The way the view zoomed into an indiscernible moving image because he was driving almost 180 miles per hour. Izumi had always been a reckless boy, and nothing about his meager experience as an adult changed that. But he wasn’t always ignorant of safety just because he thought it was fun to be able to look at the face of Death.

She said something to him while his dark eyes looked ahead emptily. She was afraid, and he didn’t look at her, nor did he say a word in reply. Or did he? His lips seemed to move, but she didn’t remember what the words were. An hour gave her nothing but just a fraction of what she needed, but it was still a burden to bear.

Still, she had to carry on. The memories were like pests that ate up the insides of her stomach. The more they devoured, the hungrier she felt. There was only one place where Izumi resided in spirit, and it was a place she didn’t hope to return to. The place where she bred her nightmares and demons was as dark and cold as ever, and as much as she hated to admit it, it was the place that felt closest to home.

Her paintings of him greeted her like a smiling mother in the warm kitchen, though they were nothing but faceless ghosts. “You don’t need to keep them, anymore, do you?” Izumi stood next to her. “They don’t need to know,”

“No, they don’t.” she agreed. “They don’t need to know I was sad.” She picked up the memories that she eternalized with oils and acrylics and headed to the closest place where she could incinerate any evidence of the little hellish sanctuary that she built.

The fire in West Park seemed to always light up, like a lighthouse for sailors who wandered like lost souls in the strange hours of the night. The Painter ran her fingers across the face that had always watched her while she slept in the corner of her room. “It won’t be long now.” She said as she tipped the small canvas so that the fire could lick its edge. She held it as it caught fire, and just before the fire could bring her down with the engulfed painting, she let it go. It would be extra firewood for the next soul that found their way there.

She just didn’t expect that soul to come so soon.

The Painter looked mesmerized and possessed as she slowly ripped one page by one in her sketchbook of nightmares and fed them to the fire. Majima could have easily walked away then. He could have turned back and pretended he didn’t see her, but his actions and his feelings betrayed him, and before he could change his mind, she turned to him as if she sensed someone looking at her.

The skin around her eyes were red and her lips were pink and cold. He wanted to curse when he thought of how pretty she looked when she cried. This was the girl he remembered, the sensitive, sad soul who snuck out when everyone was asleep because she forbade herself from anyone seeing her without her smiling face.

It didn’t soften him completely, even though he wanted nothing more than to take her home and hold her while she cried her eyes out. He wanted to tell her it was okay, that she didn’t need to explain herself, that he didn’t want her to leave again.

Testifying anything but his feelings, he threw his cigarette to the ground, and stamped it out before he approached her in angry strides and cornered her to a wall inside the nearby public bathroom. He didn’t need to tell her the chaos and damage his fury could befall, nor did her eyes falter as she looked at him with the same level of sadness in her eyes that could hurt him just to look at them. “Ya owe me a fuckin’ explanation.”

She didn’t say anything, only lowered her gaze. “I’m sorry.” She whispered.

“Is this just a fuckin’ game to ya?”

“Does it matter?” she said under her breath.

“What did you say?”

When she raised her eyes again to meet his, expecting to see a glint of ill intentions, all he saw was regret. “I hurt you, didn’t I?”

“I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”

“That’s just more reason for me to go, isn’t it? Would that make you happy?” tears started running down her eyes. “If I disappeared for good?”

_Why does it matter if I want to disappear? Why not let me if you knew it’s what I wanted?_

“Ya…tryin’ to kill yerself? For real?” it finally dawned on him. How foolish of him to think a kiss could stop her, could save her. _This ain’t a fuckin’ fairy tale._ “That’s why you left?”

“It’s only fair.” she smiled. “For everyone. For him. For you. For everything I did and shouldn’t have.”

“That ain’t the answer. Trust me,” he begged. “Please.”

“I don’t know what you’ve been through, and how much it hurts for you. But you’ve never been the one holding the gun, have you?”

_If you can go on without crossing that line, do it._

“And now I’ve gone and shot you with it. You, who had nothing to do with my past. How do you think I feel?” she asked. “It feels wrong to even breathe, let alone be saved time and time again by someone you know you’ll just hurt.”

“Ya didn’t hurt me,”

“Don’t lie to me.” She had her resolution, and she wasn’t going to turn back on it. “So say goodbye if you want, but please let me go. I can’t stand knowing I hurt you, and I can’t imagine how worse it is for you.”

Majima grit his teeth. He was torn between his options, of which both presented themselves as masked with mercy and cruelty. Was it better for her to let her kill herself? Was it selfish to keep following her like a stray dog, and keep fooling her to live a life she doesn’t want to live? He saw how painful it was for her, no matter how much she kept saying it was her punishment, her living purgatory. The truth was, she was hurting more than anyone else around her. Way more than he was hurting and way more than the man she claimed to have killed.

She gasped. Somewhere inside her mind, this situation, this conversation sounded familiar. A verbal tug of war between a girl who wanted to leave and a boy who refused to let her go. This wasn’t the first time she wanted to say goodbye and had angered someone. Jumbled words and sensations rushed into mind in an incoherent sequence.

Majima ran out of time to decide.

The Painter began to suffocate, staggered painful breaths escaping her throat. Her face turned grey and she felt vicious, disordered sequence of hot and cold flashes. “Oi,” he held her tight by her arms, finding that her entire body trembled like a naked man stranded in the icy arctic. She dug her nails deeper into her skin, chanting repeated apologies to someone.

She dropped to the floor and when she coughed into her hands, blood sprayed in abundance onto her pale, shaking palms. Nauseous and her vision failing her, she kept her head low.

“Fuck,” Majima growled and he picked her up. It felt like her lungs was on the verge of exploding every time she tried to inhale, and the blurring world around her would have excited her if she was all alone and helpless, and not being desperately rescued, again, by the man she last wanted to burden.

In the haziness of everything, she found herself back on the highway, the calm silence in Izumi’s car filled with tension from the furious look in his dark eyes as he sped way beyond the speed limit on the barren freeway. Her curled fists were shaking, but the Painter was not an easy victim of fear.

“Izumi,”

He didn’t look at her. The Painter swallowed, holding on to her seatbelt. “I’m sorry.” She said, her voice gentle. “But I’m not changing my mind.”

Izumi chuckled. With each, quick passing of a lamppost, his face seemed to light up in a regular pattern, and in that blink, his eyes looked ethereally frightening. “You got a lot of bite in you, kitten.” He glanced at her pure eyes. That was what she was to him; just a little kitten. She had claws and fangs and a darn lot of feistiness in her, but what chance did she have against a tiger like him? Even when she said no, her voice was mesmerizing and soft. He could never take her seriously.

“What do you mean?”

He smiled. “You’re mine, kitten. You’ll _always_ be mine.”

Feeling a ball of panic lodged in her throat suddenly, the Painter leaned back in her seat. He scared the living wits out of her, and for good reason.

_God, please._ She closed her eyes, begging herself not to break down there and then.

_Please take me away from him._

When she opened her eyes, her eyes flashed to the road. “Izumi!” she jerked out of instinct. It was too late for him, and for her.

God heard her and answered her right there and then.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She's waiting for a boat, and he tries to convince her to come home.
> 
> Song: Prayer de Luna - https://youtu.be/4hU2P9ulfJ8

Intelligence was the last thing anyone would associate with a seemingly unhinged criminal, but Majima’s quickness to grasping concepts and jargons unfamiliar to him was beyond that of even an average person’s mental capabilities. The Painter’s sister looked at him curiously as he processed the doctor’s assessment of the patient now lying unconscious in her ward. It reminded her of when customer’s eyes would turn wide when they found out her baby sister was an engineering major in a top school in Japan who’d never scored below a 3.7 every semester.

“A panic attack, huh.” He didn’t know panic had such an offensive power against people, but if anything, nothing that had been happening to him and to the Painter made much sense in the first place. Somehow, he had a feeling a metal bat wouldn’t kill this panic. “So, she’s unwell in here?” he tapped his head.

“I didn’t know she’d relapse after so long being fine.” The sister said. They were in the waiting room. When Majima explained what had happened, they moved her to the psychiatry ward after she stabilized from the blood-coughing.

“Can it….can it kill her? That…thing inside her head?”

“Did she tell you she tried once? To kill herself?”

“She mighta mention it.”

 _Is she in love with this….whatever he is?_ She tried her best not to judge, but it was hard when he had his whole torso out for the world to see. “You’re sick in the head if you deliberately look for pain, let alone death.”

She looked at him with an accusing gaze. Did the whole family consist of mind readers and witches? Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea getting close to the younger sister after all.

He still couldn’t shake the fact that she had disappeared on him after making him feel so special and like a child in love, to die. Was it her way of showing thanks? Or saying goodbye? Right when she had convinced him that he would die without her?

It must have been at the crack of dawn when he finally arrived home. Her sister had promised to inform him when she’d be discharged, but judging from the Painter’s guilty attitude towards him, she might disappear from his radar a second time. When he stepped into his barren, cold him, his eyes darted towards the note on the fridge that he didn’t have the heart to get rid of. Majima sighed.

He grabbed a can of beer and downed its entire contents in one go before tossing it into the trash can. He was dead tired and a little upset. He shed his clothes off and chucked them lazily into the washer before making his way into the bathroom. Some of the blood from the Painter’s hands had rubbed off on his own. The cold water seemed to take a while to wash it off and he stared emptily at the crimson smudges. She wouldn’t stop apologizing when he rushed her to the hospital, even when her breaths ceased to almost nothingness and her eyes closed, tears slipped out in place of words.

He saw the glances the hospital staff threw his way, especially when they found that the Painter had hid a series of mean-looking bruises on her wrists and neck. He was beginning to question his own behaviour around her. How long could he tread carefully in this land of flowers and bright skies before he accidentally set it all on flames? How long could he keep the gates standing between the only life he knew, a violent life, and the life he was slowly building with her?

Unconsciously, he balled his fingers into a shaking fist, but he stopped before his punch could hit the tile floor.

_Foolish._

Everything was foolish. His lack of control, his rage, and most of all, the way he had fallen so hard for the girl who was bound to slip between his fingers again.

Majima had deliberately let go of love once, and it made his heart black and blue. Now, when he was willing to take a risk with someone who gave promises so divine, she disappeared before he could even hold on to her. Was it just his unfortunate luck? He sighed, then turned off the shower, the soft crackles of the water hitting his body and the floor of the cubicle.

He took a towel and quickly dried himself. As the bathroom came to a silence, he thought he heard staggered breaths echoing from outside the cubicle. When he pulled it aside, he almost leapt at the side of the Painter with her back turned against him. She was standing, a little hunched, frozen and naked on the bathroom floor. Below her feet, there was a pool of blood, bright and red against the white tiles.

It seemed to have trickled from her legs.

Majima couldn’t move. Somehow, this was a lot scarier than when he saw her chained in the hole in his place. The mystery, the fact that he didn’t know what was going on, scared the living wits out of him the way he was afraid she would never wake up from the hospital bed. Majima might be mad but being in the dark was something he couldn’t tolerate.

He opened his eyes in a shudder. The shower water was too cold for his liking. Had he dozed off while bathing? That was dumb, he thought. Indeed, when he got out of the cubicle there was no blood, or the Painter for that matter.

As he leapt onto bed, he dug his own face into his pillows, as if the darkness would drown out the bad and good thoughts he had about the Painter. _Does it scare you?_ His room, especially when it was dark seemed unnatural when she wasn’t in the scene. She had slept in it once and made the entire space belong to her, and he couldn’t escape it.

The sleep felt hardly like a sleep at all. He seemed to wake without remembering even losing consciousness. The beep on his pager afforded him a dreamless rest of less than three hours. Hazy with sleep, he opened his eye, bringing himself to the senses around him. The sun was bright and hot when he stepped out the apartment building. Tokyo was busy running its gears of capitalism and industry, as people went about their business going here and there.

Majima took his steps slow. The advantage of working in his profession was that he didn’t have to fall in the peak of rush like every other crowd. It wasn’t much luck when he seemed to be busy all the time, but he hated crowds more than anything.

When he arrived at the borders of the district, he decided to cut through an alley, pretty surprised to find it empty as he dashed through the shelter of the shade. As he walked, he raised his eyes, and stopped.

The Painter was standing in front of him in a loose, white, strapped dress, her feet bare.

“Hey,” he called out, and she turned, holding a bunch of rose-tinted carnations in front of her. Her eyes looked empty, devoid of any serenity she once knew. She walked away from him, and obeying his instincts, he followed her to the other end, following her and her trail of sweet scent. When they exited the alley, he found himself at a pier, and suddenly the sun had gone.

The stillness of night did everything but keep him calm, and it was only the Painter’s presence that gave him any sense of familiarity. The sound of water crashing softly against the side of the platform where they stood filled the air. He couldn’t hear the world around them.

She was standing at the very edge, so far at the end that if he breathed behind her she would fall into the ocean. She was looking out like she was waiting for a lover that was never going to return, and the insanity of her idleness scared him. “What are ya doin’ here?” he asked.

“Him,” she said.

“Him?” he looked at her. She had the same red shade around her eyes the last time he saw her.

“He told me to wait here for him.” She turned to look at Majima. “It’s been five years.”

He felt the hairs on his skin stand. “Do you know where he is?”

“I-I…I don’t know.”

She sighed sadly. “Maybe I should…go look for him.”

“You’re goin’ into the sea?”

“There isn’t a boat. Maybe I could swim.”

“Ya can’t swim.”

“I can’t?” her eyes as she stared at him was devoid of rationality; only pure desperation….or obsession. She begins to breathe loudly, and quickly. “What should I do? I need to look for him.” The flowers she holds drops to the floor as she begins to panic. “Oh, no.” she falls to her knees to pick up the scattered flowers with her shaking hands.

Majima stoops to help her. “Don’t go.” He tells her. Her lips were trembling.

“I have to.”

“Ya won’t find him.”

She shook her head. “I have to.”

“Hey!” he grabbed her by her shoulders, forcing her to look into his eyes. “He’s gone! He’s never coming back! Ya hear?”

The loudness of his voice startles her, and she presses her palms against the concrete as if she was too fragile to even stand. She begins to sob.

“W-Where do I go?”

The lostness in her eyes, the overcrowded clouds that hazed her mind; Majima didn’t want to admit that he knew what that felt like. “You go home.”

The Painter looked left and right. “I don’t know how to get home.”

Majima wasn’t even sure if he did, either. “I’ll take ya,”

“You will?” there’s a glint of relief, like a sadness of finding out that she wasn’t alone. “Will someone be there for me?” she asked.

He clasped his lips, then nodded. “I will. I’ll be there for ya,” he stood up and lent her a hand. Hesitating, she slips her fingers into his and lets him help her up. She doesn’t seem to recognize him, but the fear of being alone…it was the same whether it was her or him.

The dream didn’t end as horribly, and Majima should count himself lucky, but he felt like a walking empty casket on the inside. The next few days passed with a lot of fights and a lot less peace of mind. Majima was steadily climbing up the social ladder, faster than most peers his age, and though he it brought him a satisfaction he couldn’t explain, it couldn’t fill a need that he had suppressed.

He saw the Painter by luck on a weekend morning in the café as usual upon ordering a cold drink to quench the thirst from being out in the hot weather for so long. He stopped for a while, taking in the distant view of her. She was hidden behind a partition in a more private area of the café, books on her table and her full attention on writing notes.

He’s seen plenty of college girls wandering around the area, but he’s never seen one up close.

Were they all like her? So absorbed in books he didn’t understand, wearing a cute 40s bikini top and shorts to match? She seemed to sigh in frustration before she swiftly brought her hair up in one grasp and tied in one messy bun. He wanted to be the one holding her hair tie for her. He knew he’d be good at it; he had neat long hair once. As she stretched her sore arms, her eyes landed on him. Eyes wide with a mixture of guilt and longing, she gave him a sorry smile.

She stood up as if waiting for him to invite himself to her table, and her made his way to her. “You’re back,” he said, as if meaning to say, _I’ve been waitin’ for ya._

“Yeah,” she said quietly. _I know._

Neither of them could tell the other what they truly felt, but it didn’t matter. They sat down facing each other, taking in the view of the face they missed the most. After almost losing one another, this was more than enough.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They reconcile and she finds the courage to trust him.
> 
> Song: happiness is a butterfly - https://youtu.be/p1LLKISvRds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Rape/Non-Con Elements

“Three days,” she said, looking ashamed. “It’s a long time to be out.” She laughed so insincerely, Majima felt bad listening to her. “But I-“ she sighed. “-I remembered something while I was in ‘there’.”

She fiddled with her hands under the table. As if reading her mind, he said, “I wanna hear it if ya’ll let me.”

“Everything?”

“Everythin’ yer comfortable with tellin’ me.”

Her gaze dropped. “I know why the accident happened. Why we were driving so late on the highway.”

The Painter may have never had a person before, but she was no fool. If anything, she knew Izumi from head to toe, and every inch of his mind and heart, or at least which parts mattered to differentiate if he was peckish or just moody from losing a football game.

She had said goodbye to him when he flew off to Princeton, the beauty of an endless dream shaping the future they’d have together. He sent letters of undying longing for her, and along with it, expensive gifts to signify how much she meant to him. She had never been pampered that way, and though she knew how privileged he was, it surprised her to be receiving such fancy gifts. Gifts, that though she liked a lot and appreciated, couldn’t have stemmed from their interactions together.

She wasn’t a demanding person, nor had she defined what her tastes were like, and it tugged at her mind with many questions. When he came home in the summer, he insisted on seeing her. But he was nothing like she remembered.

It was as if living abroad had activated all of his carnal desires, and all of them were of her. Charming in his ways and with a gentle voice to match, he managed to almost convince her all the time, and though she loved him, the Painter was in her senior year. She couldn’t risk losing too much time to romance.

Then came the list of things he’s given her, the list of things he’s done for her. Didn’t she love him? Did she dare hurt him when they only had so little time to see each other? As nights went by his touches dare to land on her thighs, beneath her clothes, on her throat.

But as deep as his hands went, deeper was the poison of guilt.

One night she said yes to him. It couldn’t hurt, could it? Her friends said it wouldn’t. She bought morning-after pills, shaved her legs, even dressed in her best lingerie. Boy, was he pleased to see his little kitten that night. She couldn’t describe the look in his eyes. It made her tongue sting just remembering it as she narrated it back to Majima.

_Izumi._

He didn’t speak much. He didn’t need to. His hands did most of the talking. “You’ll be gentle with me, won’t you?” she made him promise just before they did it.

“Of course, kitten.” He chuckled, caressing her hair. _I’d never hurt you._

“ _Never._ ”

Majima noticed her hands unconsciously caressing her throat as she retold things, leaving big gaps for him to fill in himself.

Izumi’s actions betrayed his promises. What was meant to be a special experience for her was nothing but torture. Silenced and supressing sobs, she dug her nails into her own skin and bit her own tongue just to drown out the pain.

_Good girl, that’s a good girl._

She was a good girl because she didn’t fight back, and after he was done ruining her, he kissed her all over the bruises he made on her pale skin. She waited in pain for him to fall asleep, and when he finally did, she crawled out from underneath him.

Her whole body was in pain that night.

Finally letting out silent sobs, she limped to his bathroom and stood in front of his mirror to see the mess he had made of her. If that wasn’t enough, a small pool of blood formed under her feet.

The Painter licked her lips, somehow managing to stay in the present without crying. “I was afraid of him. I couldn’t think, couldn’t eat. I kept wondering if it was my fault.” She cracked a small smile. “Funny, isn’t it? Trying to blame yourself for something someone else did to you.”

Majima wanted to hold her and hug her and tell her it wasn’t her. That she did nothing wrong. “I guess that’s love. Or maybe…I just hate myself.” She cleared her throat. “I tried to break up with him because of it. I didn’t understand him anymore, and I sure as hell wasn’t good enough.”

She quoted everything he said, every word that scared her, and the last word that made her beg in prayer; the last word he’ll ever speak.

“I know you’re going to tell me it’s not my fault, but-“ she shook her head. “-feels like a curse when your prayer gets answered right there and then. Like God’s trying to tell you, ‘You want this? Take it, take it all and take a look what the fuck you’ve done.’.” the way she raised her voice at herself scared Majima for the way he didn’t understand the anger she could project onto herself. She, whose voice and the way she breathed took the form of gentleness that defeated even the soft wind, could have so much violence for herself.

“So ya tried to punish yerself.”

“The cops thought I was crazy for wanting to get convicted for my own boyfriend’s murder. Maybe even death isn’t enough.”

“I ain’t a believer, but ain’t God supposed to be forgiving? Ya make ‘im sound pretty mean.”

“Maybe so,”

“It sounds a lot to me like He saved ya. It’d be a damn waste ta throw all of that away, don’t cha think?”

“You…you were in my dreams, weren’t you? I saw you, but I didn’t recognize you.”

“That was really you?”

“I guess we can meet in our sleep too, huh?” she let out a soft chuckle, but the look in her eyes said, _oh no._ She didn’t want to tell him that when she woke up from her sleep after standing at the pier in her white dress into the dark chill of her ward, she broke out in tears wishing he was there, and that her sobs pained her due to the bruise inside her throat.

He wasn’t sure if it was a good or a bad thing being able to see her in another realm, but he didn’t complain. Any moment with her was a moment he wanted, illusion or not. And by the looks of it, maybe it wasn’t an illusion as he thought. Maybe the fear and horrors that had taken up her form were realer than anything he’s seen.

Her face turned pale and she pressed a hand against her forehead. “Ya alright?”

Her breath broke out in wordless trembles. “F-Fine, I-“ her hand fell to her open mouth, panic churning in her guts as the sensation of Izumi’s ghostly hands strangled her. In urgency, he slipped next to her and pulled her in. He’s seen those eyes before - he knew what would ensue if he let her be.

His hands tight around her, he pulled her hands away from her throat.

“Ya seein’ things?” he asked.

“N-No,” her lips shivered. “J-Just flashes,”

Sighing in a worried tone, she closed her eyes.

“They ain’t real,” he whispered, patting her head.

A searing pain was borne between her thighs and her neck and wrists began to ache mercilessly. She pressed her palms against her mouth to avoid screaming in the café. “Look at me,” he demanded in a growl. Scared, she obeyed, finding comfort in the sharp gaze of his eye. She was afraid she’d see someone else. “He’s dead. He can’t hurt ya anymore.” he caressed her cheek. “Eh?”

She lifted a hand to touch the fabric of his glove, as if trying to validate that what she saw wasn’t a ghost she projected from her needs. The pain in her body began to recede as noises and smells returned to her. “I’m sorry.” She pulled away from him as if refusing to burden him anymore. She felt like an idiot, and a weak one. “I guess I can’t tell what’s real and what’s not anymore.”

“Ya recognize me just fine,” he tried to encourage her. The Painter steadied her breathing and tore off her hair band to let them breathe.

“Do you think it’ll ever end?”

He reached out to fix a messy strand from her hair. “Ya hold on long enough and you’ll be glad ya didn’t give up.” The tone of his words suggested the darkness of his past. “I know there ain’t much regret when yer dead, but you’ll lose everything ya ever could ‘ave.”

“Did you get it all? Everything you could have? You’ve met everyone and done everything?”

“Not yet. S’why I’m still here,”

“Do you like it?”

“S’better than I had in a long, damn time. Thanks to ya, I even stopped havin’ nightmares.”

“That was all you,” she insisted. “And you’ve done more for me than I have for you,”

“Then grant a wish for me, will ya? Don’t shut me out again, even if ya think it’s gonna hurt the fuck outta me.”

“Am I….that important to you?” Izumi did things to her that stripped her of any self-worth, like plucking petals off a flower until it laid like a bare stem. The Painter didn’t see herself as deserving of anything or anyone, let alone the undivided attention of a sensitive, beautiful being. Majima wanted to tell her how much more he felt undeserving of her. She was like a lover carved out from multiple, pretty dreams. Pretty from afar and breath-taking up close.

“Ya need me ta say it? I ain’t good with corny shit.”

She shook her head. “No,”

They sat there in silence, returning to the blandness of reality. “Goro? I mean, sorry-“

“I prefer ya stick to that name,” he said.

“Will you ever tell me about the nightmares you have?”

“I gotta feelin’ you’ll figure out on your own. You’ve damn near figured out almost everything else about me,”

“I think you’re giving me too much credit.”

“Wanna bet? Ya got questions for me that ya never ask,”

Her eyes widened. “Is it so obvious?”

“You’re like a cat. Always curious about things but too polite to ask,”

She decided to push her luck. “Can I be impolite just this once?”

“Shoot,”

She ran her hand through her hair, picking her words. “The first time I saw you, when you were in front of the café, I thought you looked really sad. Like you were looking for someone inside. Someone you just said goodbye to,”

Majima fell silent but has seen proof of her third eye way too many times to be embarrassed and lie now, especially when he’s deliberately let her into his most personal spaces. “Am I wrong?” she leaned her head forward to look at him clearly.

“Sorta,” he answered. “Said goodbye to ‘er on purpose.” He said briskly, a stifled laugh making him look a little more tragic than he intended. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t think about Makoto when he was first adjusting his feelings for the Painter.

The Painter’s gaze dropped. “I’m sorry to hear that,”

“Don’t be. If it makes ya feel better, it’s you I can’t stop thinkin’ about now!” he huffed proudly. He didn’t regret letting Makoto go, but the pain that came with it was something he wasn’t spared from, and it could just be one of the reasons he was so willing to get thrown into the deep end with the Painter.

He didn’t understand it. Sometimes he wondered if the Painter was just a cushion for his pain, but he has proved himself wrong enough times to know he felt something real with her. And the way she distanced herself from him right when she knew she’s fallen into an irremedial disease said the same thing.

“Am I…goin’ too fast witcha?”

“No, not at all.” she cracked a smile. “We’re going slower than most of my friends,”

“Haw? Really now…” it was embarrassing to hear, and he felt so detached from other people his age; the Painter being exhibit A. He was supposed to be the hedonistic, ungodly and unthinking icon, but maybe he wasn’t the best at his game by a long shot.

“Does it bother you?”

“Naw, just afraid I was bein’ too pushy with ya.”

“Thanks, for coming by, and for taking me to the hospital.” She laid a hand on his and squeezed it softly. “It means a lot to me. Everything we did and everything you’ve done for me.”

“Hey, hey, this some kinda sappy goodbye or what?”

“No. I just felt like saying that.”

Feeling like he could stay there forever, his thoughts were cut short by the beeping sound from his pager. “Gotta go,”

“Call me?” she said.

“’Course.”

The Painter saw him out, her insides melting from his cool, dangerous demeanour. It felt good to talk to him and trust him. “See ya,” he raised a hand without fully turning to her and she watched him light up his cigarette before disappearing into the distance.

“Excuse me. Are you from around here?” a male voice greeted her from behind.

“Yes?” whipping out her usual hospitable grin and attentive ears, she turned to the stranger.

“I’m looking for the owner of this café, do you know her?”

The Painter fell silent as her eyes rose to his face, almost falling back. Was she asleep? She was sure she wasn’t. “I-Izumi?” she drove her nails into her skin. The pain felt real. She wasn’t dreaming at all.

He looked just as surprised as she was. “It’s you,”

“Y-You’re not…dead,”

He laughed at her confusion.

“I’m his brother. Do you remember me?”


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets begin to tell themselves and she's not sure if she can take it.
> 
> Song: I Need Some Sleep - https://youtu.be/dT354BOBjPw

The resemblance was uncanny, and the Painter caught herself staring a bit too long that it seemed rude to her. Sure, he looked a lot older than the last she remembered of Izumi, but wouldn’t he after 5 years? But she remembered his parents mentioning about an older brother who was abroad; someone she never had the chance to meet. He reached a hand out to her, “Ito Itsuki,”

Finding no need to feel wary, she politely shook his hand and served him like she would do any customer.

“I’ve heard quite a bit about you,” he said once they settled down at a table with drinks for her guest.

“Izumi talked about me?”

“Sometimes, but it was mostly our mum.”

“Oh,”

“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner to see you. I didn’t remember until I found out you got hospitalized just recently.”

“No, no. I forgot that Izumi had an older brother too,”

“Are you unwell?”

“I…passed out.” She tried her best to maintain her cool façade. “But I’m okay now.”

Time flew by as they introduced themselves like strangers, filling the other in on what they had missed, what they were onto now and so on. The Painter couldn’t help but notice that Itsuki had a similar charm as Izumi that, except that it was…kinder and came from a humbler place. He seemed genuinely concerned and interested with how she was doing, despite having only met her for the first time. Brotherly affection radiated from the way he spoke and acted around her.

His mother had apparently talked a lot about the Painter, and in great detail too, like how the Painter had thinned down, how she refused to see Izumi’s body at the morgue, how she wore a dress he had gifted to her to visit his grave. She had never thought of herself has sad and in grief, but when the things she did was narrated back to her, she couldn’t help but think of how pathetic she was.

Itsuki didn’t want to say it out loud either, but she looked too sad to be 22. He curled his fingers when he watched her slowly drift from her inexpressive act to a more natural, albeit sadder face as she listened to him.

“Do you….still think about him?” he asked.

“Hm?” she turned to him.

“Please don’t pretend with me. I might be his brother but he’s gone, but you’re still here and I care about you.”

She felt heavy to hear him say those words. “There’s not a day when I don’t wish that it was me in that grave and not him.”

“It’s a strange way to remember him.”

“I’m not sure what I feel.” The Painter sighed. “But we argued just before the accident. I know a lot of people think I want to be with him, even if it means dying but-“ she shook her head.

“You just want to switch places so you don’t have to be together anymore, and you won’t have to feel guilty about the car crash.”

Her dark eyes trailed emptily. “I’m sorry if I’m offending you or your brother’s memories in any way.”

Itsuki clasped his lips. “I actually came here to tell you something, but I understand if you don’t want to hear it, because it’s not something pleasant.”

“About Izumi?” the life in her eyes had already left.

“Yes,”

She didn’t need to think about it. She’s been searching everywhere and all over for any traces of him, and the more she looked, the more it seemed like he was nothing more but a projection of all her negative feelings shaped into such a beautiful, beautiful nightmare. “I want to hear it.”

“Okay,” he took a minute to sort his words. The Painter levelled her eyes with his. It felt like looking right at Izumi. “There’s a reason I took so long to find you.” He paused. “I didn’t know you were his girlfriend at first, because I remember him going out with a few girls back, one each time, but different. This was during his senior year, if I remember. I scolded him for not being serious in school,” he scoffed.

Though it was news to her, the Painter felt anything but surprised. The weight in her body tugged down at her heart even further. Itsuki watched the silence of her lips, betrayed by the loudness of her cracking eyes.

“And I remember him being pretty open about fooling around when he was in the States. We did talk about dating, just in passing, and I’m guessing he was mad drunk when we had that conversation. He said he wanted a girl he could show off to his friends. Someone who’ll make them jealous of him. I asked him what kind of girl she would be, and he said she’d be the prettiest, smartest girl and she’d be hard to get.” The way he turned to her it was as if the Painter matched Izumi’s exact description.

“Like a trophy…” she breathed through trembling lips. She looked away, as if ashamed from being fooled.

“When I came home a few weeks ago, my parents happened to know about how you were in the hospital. I just found out then who you were. They were talking so much about you, and almost had me fooled too when they said my brother sent you all sorts of gifts. I thought maybe he changed,” his voice drifted. “I don’t know if it was a mistake to ask how long you two were together.”

_Don’t you know? Your baby brother was with this girl for five, long years! Imagine how much pain she has to carry after the car crash._

“Maybe I’m being unfair to my brother, but after listening to how sad you were, even now…I couldn’t take it. I feel like you had the right to know.”

The Painter cried, not able to hold it in anymore.

“Did you…know about any of this?” he placed a hand on her back. She shook her head. It was tragic to see her like this, and Itsuki pulled her into his embrace. There was no anger in her voice, nor her eyes, just pure untainted sadness. He could tell that she must have loved him in the bliss of utter ignorance. And the way she didn’t look the slightest bit disappointed suggested her misplaced generosity and kindness that she had for Izumi.

To carry so much for five years, without being able to get used to it – he hoped his revelation to her would give her some form of peace, maybe even help her move on. She sounded too good to be grieving for years more for a man who didn’t invest the same amount of love for her, lest the man be his own blood.

He stayed until he made sure the girl was feeling at least a bit calmer before he made his leave.

“Thank you for coming all the way here, and thank you for telling me, even though he’s your brother.” The tears had dried against her flush cheeks.

“I don’t know if anyone’s told you this, but the car crash wasn’t your fault, neither was his attitude.”

She gave a brisk nod.

“I hope we can meet again at a better time. The three of us still care about you. That you can believe,”

“I appreciate that. I’ll see you soon at a better time then,”

“Goodnight,” he politely left. She breathed heavily; crying and panicking was exhausting. It took two men to comfort her for a five-year long pain caused by just one, and she felt like a true damsel in distress, though it didn’t feel so good to be burdening anyone at all.

It was around a quarter to two when Majima hummed happily in the streets after completing his tasks early for the day. The streets were mostly clear, and most people who were still out were either in bars and discos or enjoying a late coffee with a friend.

The Painter didn’t pick up his call, and he figured he would try his luck by returning to the café. He knew how annoyed the sister would be, but it didn’t matter. No one was standing in the way of their little spark.

As he expected, the sister shot him an irritated look upon seeing him walk through the entrance. “Buy a drink, then you’ll get to see her.” She said.

“F’course.”

“She hasn’t budged from her place.”

“Thanks,”

Alas, he found her exactly at the same spot where they shared a special reconciliation moment, except that she wasn’t awake to greet him. Majima was going to scold her for not picking up his call, but upon seeing her resting her head on her folded arms on the table, he couldn’t bear to proceed. She had hid her face in her arms. Majima sat down next to her, pulling his glove off to brush her hair with his bare hand.

“Ya must be tired huh?” he recalled her being an extremely light sleeper, but she didn’t stir at all when he touched her. Then he heard a sniff, and he took a closer look. “Hey…” he gently touched her shoulder. “Are ya cryin’?”

There was no response.

Worried, he gently tried to lift her head. Once he was afforded a part view of her face, he could see that she was indeed crying, but that she was dead in her sleep. Her eyes were tight shut and tears ran down her warm cheeks. He pulled her back and placed his own chest as her pillow so that he could examine her properly.

“Oi,” she looked a little terrifyingly uneasy, and her tight lips kept twitching. He shook her, but no movement came from her, let alone a sound. “Ya havin’ a nightmare. Wake up.”

The thought of her being out for three days scared him. He knew it wasn’t coma; that it was nothing but a long sleep where she wandered the alternate reality between her life and death. Who knows how long she’d be sleeping still if he hadn’t caught her at the pier?

Despite the nervousness and furrow of her eyebrows, her chest rose and fell ever so gently. Sleep was peaceful, but he knew her mind was in a place that was anything but that.

She was swimming.

The ocean waves were hard and merciless against her; but she, with all her small might refused to give in to the throes of nature. The boat hadn’t come, but if she had to bet, the place she was looking for had to be across the sea. Five years was a long wait, and she couldn’t take it anymore.

The tears she cried had melted with the cold salty waters of the sea, and thankfully, she had grown a few inches in her legs. Even so, the waves kept pushing her back despite the effort she was putting into her forceful strides, and to make things worse, it was horribly cold. The rumble of the clouds above her outshone the noise of the crashing waves. She couldn’t see where the sea started and ended anymore.

She was completely stuck in the middle of an ocean, all on her own.

She kept afloat for a little, letting the big slides of water carry her away before she made up her mind. _How long can it be?_ Lightning glowed between the outlines of the cloud before rain began to pour. There were no stars for her to sea nor had she the necessary sailing knowledge to determine where she was.

Inhaling deeply, she submerged herself and swam underwater. It couldn’t take five years to reach that place, could it?

She kept going on and on, even when her limbs were beginning to fail her, and she felt as if her lungs had shrunk so much she couldn’t breathe properly anymore. There were times when the sea would be calm, and when it was so monstrous, she was ready to drown and be devoured by the unmatched power of nature.

But somehow, by a single stroke of luck, and her sheer will, she made it.

She wasn’t sure where she made it, but anywhere with land was better than the endless water. It was dark and she couldn’t see, and she let her face dry on its own before she blinked and looked around her. The moon above her seemed to grant her a bit of glow that she could at least use to make up some shadow form, and she used the nerves on her hand to identify everything else.

Crawling up away from the water, she found her feet stepping on cold grass – a stark change from the dry sand. The fresh fragrance of flowers faintly hit her nose, and slowly, the Painter carried herself through the dark until the sound of water completely vanished.

A strange glow settled, and soon she saw she was indeed standing in a field of flowers, and the sea and the pitch-black darkness had all but ceased. A cold air made the hair on her body stand.

“So when you couldn’t find me, you jumped head-first into the ocean.” A low voice made her head turn. “First you won’t acknowledge me, now here you are.”

Izumi was just as she remembered last; so casually handsome in a white t-shirt and jeans, and a daring smile to match. “And you got dressed up just for me,” he chuckled. “You make me rack my brains trying to figure you out, kitten.”

“Did you figure out the part where I don’t miss you?”

“Don’t be that way,” he walked towards her. “It’s the first we’ve seen each other in a long time. It’d be a waste for you to act so cold,” he reached out a hand to touch her face.

“Don’t touch me,”

He didn’t listen. “Are you afraid? Afraid that if you remember all the good times we had, that you’ll follow me back?” his hand lowered to the side of her throat and stopped there. “Afraid you can’t go back to that man?” he whispered into her ear, then swiftly wrapped his arms around her.

She could hear him sigh, his fingers looming over the curve of her shoulders. The Painter didn’t respond, nor did she stiffen her body in self-defence. His embrace felt empty, and not even the way she breathed changed. “Are you done?”

“Ah, cold as always. Looks like I’ll be alone for longer,”

She scoffed. “Don’t pretend you miss me.”

“Who else if it’s not you?”

“Do you really need me to name them?”

With that, Izumi pulled away, grinning. “Kitten just found out, huh?” there was light disappointment in his voice, but nothing that sounded like guilt, let alone regret.

“Did you love me?”

“What do you think?” another voice emerged from behind her. The Painter stepped back, unable to believe her eyes. Another her, standing right in front of her, with the same collected and cynical eyes that she had. She had on the same dress, but in black. “You know the answer to that. So why did you come?”

“I wanted to hear for myself,” she said.

The black Painter chuckled. “Is it not punishment? You crave it like it’s sugar,”

“I think the truth is punishment enough,”

“And what truth would that be?” she inched closer towards her, the soft pressing of grass beneath her feet clear in the cold space of the field. “What truth would that be?” she jerked a hand at the Painter’s throat, her fingers pressing against her slender skin. “Come on, say it.”

“He didn’t have a reason to love me,” saying it hurt more than the grasp around her throat. “Why?”

“Look at yourself. Look at how hard it is for you to smile, how plain and horribly unpleasant to look at you are. You’re empty of any reason he could ever have to love you,” she grinned. “Even when someone else comes along, you bring him down with all your goddamn misery.”

With one swing, she threw her to the ground, where she coughed blood onto the purple and blue petals that softened her landing. “I’m sorry…” she murmured to them. Red wasn’t a good colour on flowers, or her white dress.

“Admit that you came here because you know you’re nothing but a pest, a burden. Looking for answers you already know is just an excuse because you can’t stand the way it feels if you held on.”

Her hands trembled on the flowers at the truth of every word her shadow said; that it didn’t even begin to compare to what she truly felt. She brought nothing but trouble, and the sadder she felt, the bigger taking care of her was to bear.

“Let me do you a favour,” the black-dressed Painter crouched behind her, swaying her fingers through the hair of the girl in the white dress. The smell of sweet, perfumed sugar felt too familiar that it was strange to her. “Stop hurting yourself.”

“H-How?”

Before she could turn to the other, she felt a heavy jab in her chest. She looked down at the her dress, and red stain began to flower on the white fabric that covered her left breast. “Let go,” the stabber said.

The Painter’s breaths hitched as she tried to take a final glance at her murderer, and in her eyes, she saw nothing but sadness as she pulled out a blade from the back of her heart. Slowing down her fall, the one in black cushioned the back of her neck with her hand.

“It’s not for you to bear anymore.” Her voice sounded like wind at this point. Slowly, and inevitably, in the silence of the flowers where her blood lay, the Painter closed her eyes and waited out the last of her life to disappear for good.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She falls into another long sleep, and he's not sure if she'll ever wake up. He can hope though.

“There’s not much we can do,” they expected the announcement, but it was no less upsetting to hear. They merely placed her on a normal bed, with the only medical instrument attached to her being the EKG. “We can only keep a close watch, but it’s all her now.”

The look on the face of the Painter’s sister showed signs of silent panic, but being the eldest, she swallowed it all down. She forced herself to clear her mind and take the next necessary steps. Nobody wanted to say it out loud: that her sister was on the verge of death and she was a decision away from it.

“I need to make a few calls.” She excused herself, leaving Majima alone beside the unconscious girl.

“Are you…her guardian?” the nurse tried to sound polite.

“Huh? Er, y-yeah…more of a friend.”

“I never thought I’d get put on this kind of case. I only hear stories about it.”

“Really? Are they usually bad?”

“We don’t get a lot of cases like this in general, but from what I heard, when patients sleep longer and longer, there’ll be a time they completely get cut off and go into limbo. That’s in bad cases. Sometimes, with a lot of help, they recover.”

“And what happens if they go into limbo?”

“You ever heard about people going towards the light?”

“Might ‘ave,” he shrugged.

“Well, it’s the same. They kind of wander somewhere between being alive and dead. They say it’s easy to get lost, and hard to find your way back.”

Majima glanced at the Painter, wondering where she was now as she laid there like a cursed princess awaiting for true love’s kiss that didn’t exist. “Has anyone ever come back?”

“I don’t know, but it’s worth calling out to her. There’s a lot we don’t understand, but we do know that some patients can hear voices of their loved ones talking to them when they’re asleep.”

The nurse left and Majima sunk down on a chair too small for his long figure. He noticed with his lone eye some people glancing at the girl, the women and their mean gazes and the boys with their aroused eyes. They must be like a sore thumb with the Painter looking like she came out of a magazine half a century old, and Majima in his questionable outfit.

He sighed, then got up again before he had a chance to take a breather. He took off her sneakers and set it neatly on the floor before unfolding a blanket and covering her with it. “We make quite a pair, huh.” He sounded almost amused. “Why’d ya leave me hangin’ in the phone box, today? Ya tired of me?” he sat down again, reaching to touch her soft hair. “Did I say somethin’ I shouldn’t have?” Majima’s voice was gentle, and he didn’t care if people looked at him weird for talking to a sleeper. “Look at me talkin’ like a fuckin’ mad man.”

“It’s probably better to leave her here,” the sister returned. “In case anything happens.” She swallowed.

“I can stay ‘ere if ya want,” he offered.

“That’s really nice of you, but no. My parents are on the way here. I appreciate the gesture, though and I know she does too.” She squeezed his arm, and for some reason, Majima felt like a little child being reassured by an older sibling.

He offered instead to help her tidy the café.

They engaged in conversation about the Painter as they moved around, lifting chairs and wiping tables. “Did she ever tell you why she came here?”

“Not really. I don’t peg ‘er ta be much of a talker.”

“I’m surprised she’s even popular at all. I guess she hides well,” the sister said. She and the Painter looked very similar, except that she had a more intolerant natural expression on her face and if Majima could guess right, stood a few inches taller too. The family must have the genes of a giraffe.

“So why’d she move here?”

There was a pause before she answered. “To be honest, I don’t know either. It’s not even that far from home but I guess she just wants to stay somewhere with a lot of distractions. Lots of things to do, lots of people to meet. Makes it easier to forget things at home, yeah?”

“She always a people’s kinda gal?”

“She’s likeable, alright. Naïve and played safe. Your next-door girl, sticks to most rules but goes out once in a while. She’s a lot optimistic about people than I am, that’s for sure.”

“Is she that different now?”

“Hm,” she wondered. “Quieter, if anything else, and a bit too calm. It kind of scares me sometimes how well she adapted here, you know, no offense, with gangsters and jerks walking around.”

“None taken. Anyone ever try to make a mean move on ya two?”

“Of course they have, but we both know how to pack a punch. Her, too, even though it might not look like it.”

He thought the sister looked feisty for a reason. Two sisters from a higher-middle class family opening a café in a place like this and surviving this long, it amazed him sometimes. Either that, or the boys running their street were doing their job well. Probably did considering how popular the Painter was, if anything about the way his subordinates reacted to her said it.

“Do you like her?”

“Huh?”

“I mean, I know you do. It’s so annoyingly obvious. But are you serious with her?”

“I-“ he’s never felt so awkward before. “-I ain’t tryna pull her into weird shit, if that’s what yer askin.” He understood where she was coming from, wouldn’t even mind if she began condemning him considering the difference in circumstances of the two of them. He never thought about it that deeply either and the Painter, being who she was didn’t look like anything bothered her.

“You better not. Although I have to hand it to you for being so close to her in _that_ way.”

“She doesn’t have friends?”

“She has plenty. They come all the time, and a lot of them are boys considering her major. I’m just saying you’re not the first to look at her that way, but you’re definitely the first she likes back.”

 _A lot of male friends, huh?_ Majima imagined if it was similar to how the locals wooed her. He must be super lucky to have landed in the special part of her heart with how many boys she knew.

“Well, it’s nice to have another person who cares. I’m not even sure what my parents are thinking.”

“Don’t mean to pry, but they don’t look like they’re in the scene that much.”

“Huh, you’re right about that. Another reason my sister’s here is so it’s easier to hide whatever problems she has. It’s not really an ideal situation to be confiding with my parents. I mean, not after she almost hung herself.”

“Why? They got some kinda stigma?”

“They’re kind of too resigned. I wouldn’t be surprised if they just sent her to some psych facility in the mountains for a few years just so they don’t have to deal with it. It’s why we’re the way we are. She didn’t understand why I don’t trust them until the car crash. She was always more attached to her ex’s parents, even though she didn’t want to admit it.”

“Sounds like they’re afraid.”

“In a way, I guess. If anything happened and she was under their care, the whole town would talk.”

“So it’s just the two of ya,”

“Uh-huh.”

“What about you? I haven’t heard much about you until last year.”

“Ain’t much to tell. Was in Osaka up ‘til last year, runnin’ clubs.”

“Clubs? As in hostess clubs? Well, isn’t that new. Must’ve worked with a lot of girls, then?”

“Feels strange, ta be frank. It was all girls then but now s’just me n’ the boys.”

“No wonder you’re a lot more polite with girls.”

Majima gathered the Painter’s books, his eye nosier about every little thing related to her, even though he didn’t really understand even the cover of her textbooks. There was a torn piece of paper slit in between one of her books, and he pulled it out.

On it she wrote,

“Dr’s Appointment:

  1. Dreams – all the things he keeps trying to do to me
  2. My feelings for Goro – he keeps saving me and I feel like shit.”



Majima couldn’t help but feel a little giddy upon seeing his name. Was she planning on talking about him to a doctor? Were there doctors like that who listened about the emotional woes of sad people? And why did she feel like shit for constantly being his damsel in distress? He certainly didn’t feel like shit. He felt the opposite of shit, in fact.

On the bottom of the paper there was an incomplete pen sketch of a face looking to the side. A face Majima recognized to be none other than himself. He wasn’t an art critic but there was a dark, mesmerizing style to it, a style that was inherently hers. And the fact that she had drawn him, in the most casual of times, on a ripped paper with the same pen she used to write her college notes – it was like she didn’t need to stop to think about him, like he was always there in her mind even when she was in the middle of doing something else.

He folded the paper neatly and slipped it inside his pocket.

“Geez, I gotta tell her, don’t I?” he made a mental note to himself.

She emerged in the blackness of his mind very sooner than he thought as he drifted off to sleep. She sat with her legs folded with her back against him. This time she was soaked to the bone, making the same white dress she saw at the pier translucent and sticking to her skin.

She was a distance away from him, and when he approached her, he saw a line of gleaming light in the pure blackness. As he inched closer, he saw that she was sitting in the centre of a transparent cube.

Upon being an arm’s length away, he slid his nails against the smooth surface, finding that it was glass. He called out to her. She sat as still as ever, not hearing a single breath of his voice. He circled the glass cage to look at her face. Water was still dripping ever so slowly from the ends of her limbs and her hair.

He kept calling out to her, then used his fists against the glass surface. Only when his knuckles began to bleed, he saw her raise her eyes. She looked at the smeared blood stain on the glass, pressing her fingers gently from the inside.

Warily stepping backwards, she looked around her, into the infinite blackness. Was there someone outside? “Wait!” he watched her eyes fill with fear. Majima’s entire being was gripped by panic. “Behind ya! Goddamnit! Look behind ya!”

There was another woman stepping ever so gently towards her, with a knife in her hand. He banged hard on the glass, punched it, fisted it, threw his body against it, but all in unfortunate vain. The Painter bumped into the black figure and upon turning around, the lady in black grabbed her by the arm and pushed the knife through her still-beating heart. “No! Fuck!” he yelled into the empty space.

“Let go,” she said to the Painter, now lying cold on the ground. “It’s not for you to bear anymore.” She pressed the blade deeper into her chest, and the Painter could feel it break through a bone in her back. She gasped in pain.

“Fuck!” he looked away in agony, glancing back as if it made any difference to the unleashed terror in him.

The killer stood up, now looking into the eyes of the horrified watcher, only to see his widened eye upon realizing she was exactly the same person as the girl bleeding out. There was no smile on her lips, nor satisfaction in her dark eyes.

If anything her face said it was that she was mourning the death on the inside, despite the Painter’s fresh blood on her hands.

And he realized then, helplessly, defeatedly, that her enemy all this while had been nobody else but herself.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do you escape a place you've never been to?
> 
> Song: Once Upon A Dream - https://youtu.be/vJ8DCxAfJBM

The day couldn’t have gone worse.

“She’s gone. Missing. Her bed’s empty.”

“What?!” he almost yelled into the payphone. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. She wasn’t here when the nurse came in.”

“No one saw her walk out? Ya sure she didn’t just take a trip to the bathroom?”

“Nobody, and no because she’s been missing since this morning and she hasn’t come back. If you see her anywhere, could you please let me know? We’ve reported to the cops and I searched this place high and low.” The sound of her strained, hungry voice suggested she’d been making calls all day in between short bursts of sprints into strangest corners of the hospital grounds.

“’Course, I’ll keep my eyes open.” He hung up, pausing from the dimension around him. It felt like reality was collapsing; everything he believed to be true, the solid earth, the sounds, the images. Could she have faded into thin air, the way the people in the ‘stories’ he read did? Were they even stories, and not true accounts? It didn’t seem likely that she was trapped in a paranormal system but who was he but a weak human? If anything, it wasn’t him who held the reins of what constituted reality and what didn’t.

Still, he had wants.

And he wanted nothing more than to find her, and save her, if he needed to. He was a family man after all. It wasn’t his duty to ponder on the philosophies of life, only to do. Thinking only came to good use if it helped him do his job. He wished he called her sister earlier but wallowing in regret wouldn’t do the job, and with cases of disappearance, every second lost meant a distance added between him and her.

So he ran, and ran, and never stopped.

And neither did she.

 _“Have you made a decision?”_ she remembered her vision blurring after the sudden stab, and the whiff of floral smells up her nose. _“Places like this change quickly, and not in a good way.”_

When she woke up again, the land had turned barren, lifeless, dry and red, with wind carrying sand everywhere. There were barely any flowers left, only inches of dried, bald stems sprouting so insincerely in between dried cracks of land if she bothered to look close. “Did I really sleep that long?” she looked around.

There was no sign of an exit, let alone any contrasting thing for her to focus on. Everything around here seemed endless. Even when the dust and wind settled, she didn’t know where to begin. “All it takes is faith right?”

_You poor, pretty little fool._

The Painter curled her fists.

“I’m guessing this isn’t just a dream anymore,” she said solemnly. “But where’s the light?” she wasn’t someone who usually verbalized her thoughts out loud, but it was the only thing that felt real to her now, the only thing human left. Then, as if on demand, she saw an opening of light seep through the curves of her shoulders. She looked behind to see a small glowing entrance.

“Not there then,” her heart skipped a beat as she stared into the whiteness of the invite, knowing very well where it led to, what it meant for her, all the things she would lose.

_“Why not? Why live in pain? Why risk being hurt anymore when you can find your peace right there?”_

The Painter took a hesitant step back. “Because…”

_“Doesn’t it hurt?”_

A torturous pain hit her at her chest, an indescribable sensation that brought her to her own knees and squeezed tears out of her golden eyes, leaving her gasping for breath. This pain that kept her from sleeping, from dreaming, from deserving or hoping. This was the feeling that made her chant to herself, “Why am I still alive?”

She fisted the earth beneath her, strained sounds coming out of her lips. It was like the insides of her soul was scraped out and left to dry, and then scraped again like the corners of a near-empty ice cream tub.

Izumi’s form stood over her with an extended hand. She felt as if she couldn’t stand if she didn’t hold on to him, but she had to try, no matter how excruciating it felt. With shaking legs, she slowly rose, and the moment she felt her felt, she turned and moved.

She ran, and ran, and never stopped.

She thought of everything and everyone from the places she wanted to return to, every sound and smell, every voice, every taste, every sigh, every argument, every soreness, every bruise. She didn’t dare to look back. She was afraid she’d lose sight of everything she once knew, all the life she lived, and all the world she wasn’t ready to say goodbye to.

Memories were disconnected like broken ornaments inside her head. Faces without voices, sounds without smells, incomplete forms, distorted speech, a combination of the past that was hard to structure like a crumpled piece of paper that wouldn’t unfold. The Painter began to feel desperate for anything, something that she remembered as a whole, but everything inside her only existed as a fraction.

The longer she ran, the longer they ceased to even be.

Rain began to fall, but the drops on her skin didn’t feel wet, nor cold. There was no petrichor, no sound, not even pressure where it landed. She kept running. There was the heat beneath the soles of her feet. She knew they would leave too, but for now, it was all she had. She couldn’t even hear herself panting like a madman.

She didn’t last.

After what felt like an eternity, exhaustion won over her. She was on all fours, nowhere near anywhere or anything. The same blackness filled the void above the land, and the land didn’t feel any drier of fertile beneath her palms. It didn’t feel hot or cold. She was in nothingness, doomed to be nothing herself.

She was too tired to remember anything, too drained to even make sense of what was around her. It was clear she had lost, and whatever was against her, even if it was herself, was going to drag her to hell soon enough.

She closed her eyes.

_I wanted to try. I really did._

Was it enough to know that she wanted something even though it was never for her? To just intend? To be loyal to a wish even when she was doomed to failure? Was God that forgiving?

She could feel the light catching onto her, inch by inch.

_At least I’ll go knowing I looked the other way._

And just before the light from her eyes left, she thought she tasted smoke on her lips.

*

The rain was heavy in the district. With a colony of wandering and moving umbrellas, Majima could only thank his taller-than-average height afforded him a head amount of vision advantage. And the Painter too, would be easy to spot, _if_ she was standing.

Although, considering how chilly it was and how the Painter had dressed last time he saw her, she was probably hunched and hugging her own body for warmth. Poor thing. He would give her his own jacket if it wasn’t already soaked. It’s the thought that counts, right?

But what if she wasn’t walking around? Why would she be here if she did run away from hospital anyway? What if someone saw how vulnerable she was and took her away? He slipped in between alleys, craning his neck up and down, searching for familiar heads and outfits or if anyone was lying on the ground.

He couldn’t be too careful. In a crowded place where dark corners were everywhere, and where no one screamed for help, the last thing he needed to be was to feel safe enough to be careless.

He asked every person he saw, went into every shop, paged his boys and his friends if they saw a tall, thin girl with tall hair in dark blue clothes. His luck had run out. Nobody saw anyone the likes of her wandering around town, and he was beginning to plan his next route farther away. Where could she have gone?

He climbed to the top of buildings, looking down for familiar faces with his remaining eye, even took secret pathways through buildings he was sure she wasn’t aware of. He scoured every square inch of land in the entire Kamurocho and yet wasn’t any closer to finding her.

It wasn’t like he didn’t think of any other possibilities. She wasn’t at her parents’ house, nor even did the guilt of her subconscious take her to Izumi’s place, both his living residence and current resting spot. What was worse was that it was similarly difficult to even find a trace of her disappearance. No evidence or even a trail that could tell them where she ran off to, assuming that she did run off somewhere. He was running on what he thought was her state of mind, taking him to places he thought mattered to her, and when that failed he left no stone unturned.

Bummed and lost, he tried to give himself room to think, and he slowed down his steps. Nobody else had any better luck than he did at finding her. The cold wasn’t helping him with finding much inspiration. He hadn’t slept after waking up from the dreadful nightmare.

The thought of her being “gone” forever crossed his minds so many times he was beginning to believe that maybe she really did went like that people he read who disappeared leaving a soot after catching a curse similar to the illness that fed on her mind.

But he couldn’t let that thought win.

Not yet anyway.

He still wanted to try.

Returning to the realm he prowled, he found himself approaching a crowd. The crowd had accumulated on Tahei on the main road. He snaked his way in. Had someone died? An image of the white-dressed bloodied Painter flashed in the back of his eyes, and he felt desperation forming in his throat. Pushing his way through, he finally came to the subject of attention.

He shook the rain from his eyelashes.

As if by some miracle or curse, she laid there. He threw himself to her. The tar was clean beneath her. He picked her up, tearing his gloves off with his teeth. He pressed two fingers against the side of her neck. It was hard to feel a pulse when his own hands were shivering.

Majima raised a hand to her face, lightly slapping her on her cheek. “Hey, wake up.” She was as stiff as the cold was. He looked around frantically. With him in the scene, no one dared near or breathe without his consent. “Get a fuckin’ ambulance!” he yelled.

The horror of the past was something he forbade himself from repeating and he’d been fortunate once, but luck was bound to run out and he didn’t want to risk it with her. “Hey,” he shook her lightly by the shoulders. “Get up, please.”

He spoke to her like a child, and like she was listening. He pressed his fingers against her pulse again. “Goddamnit, stop shaking!” he cursed himself. He brought his hand up to her face, bringing his head closer as if wanting to her even the slightest sound of breath.

Everything returned to her then like a powerful vacuum that sucked everything around her.

She gasped and her eyes burst open. Her heart sped, banging against her ribs psychotically. It took her a moment to take in her surroundings, every single thing her senses could make her feel, from the rain dropping like chills on her forehead, to the tobacco smell of the man holding her.

Majima looked down at her, no less astounded. “You’re awake,”

The utter emptiness of who she was just seconds ago, now filling up slowly but surely with a trillion, gazillion things and feelings. “I…I know you…” his one eye, the darkness of his gaze, the coarseness of his palm against her face, his name. What was his name?

“Goro,” she breathed before pulling him to her, holding him as much as she could. “It’s you,” she cried.

“Yeah, it’s me.” He sighed, feeling lighter than feathers. “Can’t believe I found ya,”

They held each other, oblivious to the eyes around them until the white van came to take her. The soaked pair filled each other on what they missed out, and the Painter reunited with her sister. The night never seemed to end until she realized Majima was watching her from afar while everyone attempted to get her settled and checked in with everybody.

It’s been a while since he last saw the natural laughs and grins on her lips, despite knowing how frozen to the bone she must be; the look of life on her rain-soaked face.

The Painter walked towards him when she found a quiet opportunity. She had a towel over her back that they had given her, and she pulled it into her hands, throwing it over his shoulders instead. Gripping one of the corners, she gently wiped the dews from his face. “At this rate, I owe you my life ten times over.”

“Lucky for you, I ain’t good with keepin’ track of tabs.”

She giggled. “Well, I am.”

“How are ya feelin’?”

“Grateful. For everything,” she replied. “Can I..” she held her arms out. He showed no signs of protest, and she landed slowly into his embrace. “Thank you, for the millionth time.” She tightened her arms around him.

“You’re welcome,”

Pulling away, she looked into his eye. “I’m sorry I made you stay out in the rain.”

“It’s nothin’. I can handle rain,”

“Well, if you ever catch a cold, you can always call me.”

He brushed the top of her head. “I’ll be seein’ ya then?”

“Very soon,” she nodded.

“G’night,” he took the first step away.

“Goodnight.” She would tell him to have sweet dreams, but something told her that they both had enough of those. No more finding her at the pier, no more find her at places she shouldn’t be. The next time he saw her, it would be the real thing.

It was time to close that door and leave it all behind in all its graceful horrors. The mediocrity of real life had to go on and they’d take what they could over the pretty illusions of a land where they didn’t belong.

The rain had stopped, and after hours of prowling the rained district, Majima finally could light a cigarette without the weather stumping out the embers. The post-rain excess gelidity stuck to every inch of his body and he saw people returning to their blissful normalcy like a fern finally opening up after the rain dries.

How fast the night changes.

One day he would walk with her through these plain narrow streets in all its raggedness and coarse identity, the same way he walked with her once upon a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will probably upload another closure/epilogue-ish chapter but that marks the end of their dilly-dallying and I hope you enjoyed it! Don't forget to leave a comment on what you think or if you have any ideas on a new fic (I'm on a Majima fic writing spree this quarantine).
> 
> Stay safe, stay happy and keep reading, loves :)


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